


It's Only Magic

by saraubs



Series: Hogwarts AU [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Gryffindor Isabelle Lightwood, Hogwarts AU, Hufflepuff Alec Lighwood, M/M, Slytherin Magnus Bane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2018-12-20 19:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraubs/pseuds/saraubs
Summary: "but dear,don't beafraid oflove, it'sonly magic."- r.m. drakeAlec Lightwood has been doing everything in his power to avoid Magnus Bane since he broke his heart halfway through their sixth year. He’s managed quite well, burying himself in Quidditch and studying, until Magnus shows up at his spot in the library, asking for a favour. Alec knows that he should tell Magnus to go to hell, but he also knows that his ex gives him the best chance of acing potions - the only subject holding him back from his dream of being an Auror.





	1. Chapter One

For the third day in a row, there’s someone sitting at Alec’s spot in the library. Well, not just _someone_ – if it had been anyone else, Alec would have dealt with the intrusion already. No, the one person that Alec has vowed to stay away from – Hogwart’s own Head Boy – is sitting in Alec’s carefully selected seat.

If it were any other spot, he’d happily give it up. But it’s _not_. It’s his seat. The perfect seat. The seat that’s tucked behind the horrendously boring collection of Sixteenth Century poetry that’s blissfully quiet and gets an amazing cross breeze from the window overlooking the lake. The seat that’s far enough away from the obnoxious Ravenclaw table that had tried to quiz him on Fourteenth Century goblin politics when he’d scored higher than their prefect on the last History of Magic exam. The same seat he’s been using for so long that the _entire school_ knows to stay far away.

And not only is he sitting there – he’s showing no sign of moving. There are quills – purple, sparkly, bewitched quills – writing three separate sets of notes on personalized parchment and a tiny origami cat, which has been spelled with what Alec knows to be a particularly intricate bit of magic, doing cartwheels along the edge of the worn wooden table. He’s taken over, and Alec has no idea what to do about it.

\--

When Alec had walked in on Friday evening, fresh out of Potions and craving the solitude of studying, and found _Magnus Bane_ sitting at his table, he’d turned and walked directly out, robes billowing behind him. He hadn’t slowed down until he reached the Hufflepuff Common Room, and then he’d sequestered himself in his bunk, furiously reviewing notes and falling asleep fully clothed before any of his roommates had come in for the night. Yesterday, Magnus had actually _seen him_ as he walked in, hair askew from Quidditch practice and a long roll of parchment unraveling from his pocket, but thankfully Madam Pince had been looking for an Ancient Runes text that was overdue, and had swept him into the stacks without a backward glance.

But today, Magnus is quite clearly waiting. As soon as Alec – who has almost convinced himself that he can just give up his spot, cast a modified _muffliato_ on his four-poster, and live out the rest of his Hogwarts career from his bed – enters the room, he pounces. Alec doesn’t have a choice – it’s either run away and have the most notorious wizard Hogwarts has produced in a decade chase him through the castle, or buck-up and have what will no doubt be a painful conversation with the person he’s been actively avoiding for the better part of a year.

“Hello, Alexander.” Magnus smiles – quirking an eyebrow in a way that brings back a flood of memories that Alec has worked hard to suppress. “No running today?”

“Magnus,” Alec answers primly, striding past him and settling down in his chair. Chairman Meow’s origami form recognizes him – Alec still finds himself begrudgingly impressed by the spell – and rushes over to curl up on his lap. “You look awfully comfortable in my spot.”

“Your spot?” Magnus’s eyebrow – which has been pierced sometime in the past year – rises again, and Alec has to fight against the surge of desire that the simple move elicits. “I seem to remember that _I_ found this spot.”

“Yes, well.” Alec pauses for a second, pushing past the ache he’d worked so hard to soothe. “I seem to remember you giving up on a lot of things you claimed to care about.”

“Alexander –”

Alec sighs and starts taking his potions textbooks out of his messenger bag – the same bag, incidentally, that Magnus had spelled so that he would never lose another ink-stained quill inside – and stacks them on the table. “What do you want, Magnus?”

Magnus shifts, and a shower of green glitter – ever the house loyalist, even when it comes to fashion – settles on the table.

“To the point, as always,” Magnus mutters. And if Alec didn’t know any better, he’d almost think he was _nervous_. “The truth is, well – I need your help.”

Alec scoffs. He remembers a time when this declaration would have made him buoyant; now it just makes him feel hollow. “What could you possibly need from me?”

“Oh, please, Alex – Alec,” he answers, when he sees Alec’s eyes narrow. “You’ve got half the Ravenclaws out for your blood and the other half in hysterics. I’m sure you know that there are many things you could teach me.”

The words spark another memory: Magnus, cloaked in shadows, sipping on bootlegged Firewhiskey and trailing glitter along the Slytherin Common Room. A voice like velvet, snaking along the rug-covered floors of the dungeon, warming Alec from the chill that had settled in his bones the second he’d followed Izzy into the party. _Why don’t you join me, Lightwood? I’m willing to bet that there are a few things I could teach you_.

He hadn’t been wrong, but the biggest lesson Magnus had imparted – the one that Alec wouldn’t let himself forget – was that he couldn’t be trusted.

“I’m sure that if you need help with something, Magnus, there’s a line of willing volunteers. No need to stake out the library.”

Magnus shrugs, knowing it’s pointless to deny the fact. “Maybe,” he says, staring straight at Alec, “I _want_ it to be you.”

For a second, Alec is tempted to reach out and touch him. To run a thumb along his lip just one more time, feeling him shudder beneath the touch. And though he staves off that self-destructive impulse, Magnus looks so sincere – sounds so genuine – that Alec goes against his better judgment and takes the bait.

“What is it that you need help with?”

Paper Chairman Meow, who has been nuzzling contentedly into Alec’s wrist, takes this opportunity to leap up and pad across the table to Magnus. Distracted with smoothing a crease out of his tail, Magnus keeps his eyes cast downward.

“The Fairbright Scholarship,” he says. Nothing about his voice changes, but the too-casual splay of his fingers and the small tapping of his scuffed shoe against the library floor – small details, picked up by Alec only after the experience of months of embarrassing study – give away how he truly feels.

 _The Fairbright_. It hurts Alec more than he thought it would, just hearing the words. He knew that the results were out, but no one – not even Izzy, who had sources in every house – had known whether Magnus was shortlisted. He’d spent full days last year ensconced in Magnus’s purple comforter, braving the chill – and the palpable hostility – of the Slytherin dormitory, talking about what would happen if Magnus were selected. Discussing how his work could change potioncraft for an entire generation of magical creatures. And though he’d never dared to speak the words aloud – imagining himself at Magnus’s side as he accomplished everything he dreamed.

Alec had been naive enough to believe that those conversations _mattered_. That _he_ had mattered.

Before Magnus can say anything more, Alec sweeps his textbooks back into his bag. “I think I’ll pass,” he says hurriedly. “Good luck with the scholarship.”

Before he can leave, Magnus reaches out and grabs his hand.

“Alec, please.” His voice cracks, and Alec wishes that he could remember that this is _Magnus Bane_ : callous Slytherin. Master manipulator. The boy who broke his heart. He wishes that Izzy were here, to drag him away by force. He wishes that he could concentrate on anything but the feeling of Magnus’s hand on his skin, sparking a heat he hadn’t felt in ten months. “I need you.”

_What about when I needed you?_

The words are there, gathered on his tongue like daggers waiting to be flung. But instead of lashing out, he swallows them, relishing the pain of giving in. And then, almost as if by magic, he answers, “What’s in it for me?”

Though Alec knows he aims for eternally aloof, there’s a discernable flicker of hope in Magnus’s eyes. _Hope for the scholarship_ , he tells himself; he may be weak enough to give in, but he refuses to let Magnus Bane make a fool of him a second time.

“Your Potions NEWT,” Magnus says easily, as if this is the outcome he’s been expecting all along. “I’ll make sure that you get an Outstanding.”

Alec fingers his bag, thinking of the mountain of Potions homework he already has. Thinking of the _Exceeds Expectations_ that had nearly gotten him barred from even sitting his NEWT in the first place and of Penhallow’s triumphant smirk as he’d fumbled through his explanation of _Draught of the Living Dead_ on Friday afternoon.

“Fine,” he mutters against his better judgment. “I’ll help you. And don’t –” he tacks on, raising a hand before Magnus can say anything in response, “ – thank me. I’m doing this for myself.”

Magnus inclines his head, and his expression is unreadable. “Maybe you should consider jumping Houses,” he answers mildly. He waves a hand – already proficient at wandless magic, despite the fact that it isn’t even in the curriculum – and Alec’s tie shimmers green for an instant.

“Meet me here tomorrow night at six,” Alec says, ignoring the blatant showmanship and methodically removing his textbooks from his bag for the second time.

“And Magnus?” he adds, as paper-Meow climbs up his ex-boyfriend's sleeve and settles into the folds of his robes, “don’t make this into something it’s not.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Magnus murmurs before sweeping out of the library, leaving nothing behind but a faint dusting of glitter and the gaping wound of a half-healed heart that’s been once again split open.


	2. Chapter Two

**September, 2017: First month of 7th Year**

Magnus is three corridors away before he even thinks to slow down. He’s halfway across the castle before his breathing starts to settle and the furious pounding of his heart fades to a regular rhythm. His feet, long used to the path even before he began his mandatory rounds as Head Boy, carry on with little dependence from his racing mind, and bring him steadfastly toward the exact place he needs to be: Ravenclaw Tower.

It’s quiet – the fact that it’s the second Friday of the term coupled with the balmy temperature outside makes for an almost-empty castle. It’s just as well; the more people he passes, the more likely he’ll have to settle some sort of dispute or enforce some rule. He’d almost turned down the role of Head Boy when he’d gotten the letter this summer, wanting to put all of his extra time into preparing for the Fairbright instead of chasing down idiot first years, but along with looking good on his resume, it pays pretty decently – he’ll have to take fewer shifts at Rosa Lee Teabag, which is a blessing during his final term.

He makes it all the way to Ravenclaw tower without seeing a soul. The entryway is clear – no lost little first or second years have been locked out tonight – and he reaches up to prod the bronze knocker quickly.

The knocker awakens with a startled _wait just a moment, now!_ and the paper Chairman nearly topples from its perch on Magnus’s shoulder.

“Sorry little guy,” Magnus says. He mutters a quick incantation and the little origami cat stills and flattens out. Magnus places him carefully inside his bag and then turns back to the door.

“ _Good of you to finally pay attention_ ,” the knocker grumbles as if it hadn’t been sleeping a mere twenty seconds before. “ _Slytherins_ ,” it sniffs. Magnus’s hand tenses – evidently interhouse prejudices haven’t been as quick to fade amongst the relics of Hogwarts as with the majority of the student body – but he stares on with a blank indifference honed from years of practice.

He’s tempted to ask the raven if it would like help coming up with a riddle, but the last time he back-answered the knocker he’d been waiting four hours for the door to agree to let Josh out so that he could answer the impossible question.

“ _I suppose I shouldn’t make it too hard_ ,” the knocker continues, clearly trying to bait Magnus. When he doesn’t engage, it finally poses its riddle.

_“The more you take, the more you leave behind.”_

Not wanting to rush – a wrong answer could be just the reason the knocker needs to head back to dreamland, after all – Magnus leans against the wall, thinking about the possibilities. He scuffs a worn shoe across the floor, trying not to think of how he’s soon going to need to buy another pair, when it comes to him.

“Footsteps,” he answers, pushing his hair back from his eyes. Even on the best of days the walk up to the top of the tower exhausts him, and standing in front this judgmental doorknocker never helps matters. He doesn’t know how the Ravenclaws can stand it – especially the ones whose talents fall outside logic and wordplay – but he supposes they probably think the same of spending a protracted amount of time in the dungeons.

The door swings open slowly, revealing the spacious and airy common room within. The light has all but faded outside, but Magnus can see the last rays of sun stretching out over the expanse of the Forbidden Forest. Inside, a warm fire flickers and a solitary figure is stretched out on a chaise in front of a towering bookcase, leisurely flicking through the pages of a massive book.

“Hey, Josh.” Magnus glides across the floor, and it isn’t until he takes a seat across from the crackling fire that he realizes how cold he is. He shivers inexplicably under the sudden rush of heat, and pulls his feet upward to keep them from tapping on the stone floors.

“Hey Magnus, what’s – _hey_.” Josh scrambles up and the giant book he’s reading falls to the floor with a thump. He scurries over to Magnus’s sofa and pushes his friend’s hair out of his face, frowning as he measures the erratic cadence of his breaths. “What the hell happened?”

“Oh, you know,” Magnus says breezily, loosening his tie with a quick tug and slumping down so that he’s ensconced in soft, silky cushions. He breathes a little easier without the constricting fabric around his neck. “Made questionable decisions, courted disaster, participated in active self-sabotage. A typical Friday night.”

“Oh, Magnus,” Josh says, his green eyes wide. “Don’t tell me you – ”

“How about I don’t tell you anything right now?” Magnus snaps a finger and the curtains adorning each of the expansive windows rush closed. The room is cast into darkness, illuminated solely by the light of the fire.

“That’s better,” Magnus says, pushing the tips of his fingers into his temples. The niggling tendrils of pain that had started to build as he waited for Alec in the library are getting heavier, pulling heavily at his eyes and threatening to evolve into a full-blown migraine. He’ll likely have to head down to the dungeons soon to brew a quick potion – he has too many things to do before bed to be incapacitated for the rest of the night.

He looks up to find Josh’s brow furrowed with worry. “Settle down, Josh. I’m _fine_. I just need a distraction. Tell me something interesting.”

“My mother sent me a Howler today.”

Magnus scrambles to regain a sitting position, ignoring the pounding in his head in favor of giving Josh his undivided attention. He was expecting Josh to offer up some obscure trivia about one of Jupiter's moons or 20 unexpected facts about Nargles. But this? This isn't interesting - this has the potential to be a disaster. 

“Tyler?” he asks, searching Josh’s face for any hint of what may have happened. Josh’s parents, who’d once told Magnus that his feet were _too dirty_ to walk across their manicured lawn – were complete pure-blooded trash, but they were usually _discrete_ pure-blooded trash. Magnus couldn’t imagine what it would take for them to call attention to something they deemed defiant.

Josh snorts, and with a flick of his wand he commands the book across the room, where it lands gracefully on his lap. “The fact that I’m alive to have this conversation should be answer enough to that question.” He looks up through his white-blonde lashes, a coy smile spreading across his face. In the light of the common room he can almost pass for mischievous – if only Magnus didn’t know him so well.

“A package turned up at the house, addressed to Josh Fell.”

Unable to help himself, Magnus bursts into surprised laughter. “What I would give to have been able to see the looks on their faces.”

Josh grins again, looking immensely proud, and Magnus can’t help but feel buoyed by the change. Even a year ago Josh would have withdrawn completely at the thought of disappointing his parents – even if he was fundamentally opposed to their core beliefs – and the shame of a public dressing-down would have had him camped out in the dormitories for weeks. His defiant smirk is a balm to Magnus’s rapidly increasing stress.

“Let me guess, you’re shaming the Fell name?”

“ _Eschewing the name of your noble ancestor and behaving in a manner utterly unbecoming to your history_!” Josh says in a perfect pantomime of his mother’s affected Central-London accent. “I mean, really? Even barring the fact that Great-Uncle Ragnor single-handedly held back Muggleborn Rights by an entire decade, it’s also just asinine. Who names their son _Ragnor_ in 2001 and expects him to be okay with that? No one uses these stuffy pureblood names anymore – not since the War. They couldn’t have gone with a nice Percival or Arthur? I’d have even settled for being named Harry with the ten thousand other wizard boys born that year – but nope, that would have been too simple.”

Josh sighs and then falls back into the sofa, blowing strands of blonde hair out of his eyes as he settles. “As if I wasn’t enough of a freak already.”

“In the interest of fairness,” Magnus says, pulling Josh back up into a sitting position, “your parents didn’t know you were going to be such a freak when they named you.”

Josh mutters something under his breath, and it’s only because Magnus catches the tiny flick of his wand from beneath his robe that he’s able to dodge the hex. Another startled laugh falls from his lips, and this – _this_ – is why, despite the fact that he’s got a to-do list long enough that it’s started _insulting him_ whenever he adds another item, he made the trek all the way up to Ravenclaw tower. No matter how bad things are, he can count on Josh to make them better.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Josh says, taking his wand and laying it on the table in front of them in a show of peace. He pulls his legs up and rests his chin on top of his knees, peering at Magnus with a measured curiosity. It’s such a _Ravenclaw_ expression that Magnus can’t help but smile again.

Josh smiles back, and then his voice dips lower. “Are you ready to tell me what happened with Alec?”

Magnus doesn’t need to ask how Josh knows – because Josh _always_ knows. “I asked him for help with the Fairbright.”

There’s no point in lying to Josh – not that he would ever want to. Plus, now that he’s said it, Magnus feels the smallest bit of tension release. His shoulders and jaw loosen just enough for him to realize how tightly he’d been wound, but the aching in his head remains.

Josh chews on his lip, mulling over the information before answering. “I told you that Tyler could – ”

“I know,” Magnus snaps. “I know you did,” he repeats, quieter this time. “I just wanted to talk to him. I spent my entire summer –well, you know. I thought that maybe, now that the list is out – ” He huffs and runs his hands over his face, willing this cursed headache away. “I’m such an idiot.”

“You have your moments,” Josh agrees, scooting a little closer and throwing an arm around Magnus’s bony shoulders. He leans in until their heads are touching, careful as always. “I just really hope you know what you’re doing.”

“It’s a simple transaction,” Magnus says firmly. “A mutually beneficial agreement. I need to stay focused; I’m not going to let myself get distracted by Alexander Lightwood.” He pushes away from the sofa, picking up his bag so that he can get started on his ever-increasing list of tasks. “Not again.” 

\--

**July 2016, Summer before 6th year: Rosa Lee Teabag, Diagon Alley**

Magnus carefully washes down tables by hand, cursing the wand that rubs against his side the entire time. When he’d been offered this job at the end of last term he’d been ecstatic – Diagon Alley was walking distance from his new apartment and the street traffic practically guaranteed that he’d get good tips.

He hadn’t stopped to wonder _why_ no one else wanted this job – or what it was actually _like_ to bus tables and brew tea in a sweltering shop while it was close to thirty degrees outside.

London’s in the middle of a heat wave, and he hasn’t been able to wear makeup for a week. He feels even more worn out than he looks, and that’s one accomplishment he could do without. But still, the midmorning rush has cleared out and that usually means he has an hour to work on his application before work picks up again. He lives for the downtime, and he’s supposed to send an edited draft of his personal essay to Josh by tomorrow.

He’s just pulling his notebook – a spiral one that Josh bought on one of his many trips into Muggle London, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hufflepuff’s muggleborn Quidditch Captain– from his bag when a bell tinkles, signaling the arrival of a customer.

Irritated and sweaty, it takes him a few seconds longer than usual to lift his head. By the time he does, the customer is already through the door and making his way up to the counter.

“Sorry about that,” Magnus says, hastily shoving his book back into his bag. “What can I help you with?”

When he looks up, Magnus finds himself face to face with Alec Lightwood.

Internally cursing the heat and the sun and Rosa Lee _fucking_ Teabag herself, Magnus tries for his best approximation of a smile.

“Lightwood,” he says, bracing his hands against the counter. He pushes his hair back from his forehead, sending a final curse out to the entire Magical justice system, for making it impossible for him to just magic his look into place. “Long time no see.”

It’s been two weeks to the day – not that Magnus has been counting. Two weeks and countless thoughts of Alec’s broad hands splayed across his back, of furtive touches in the hidden corner of the common room, of Alec’s tongue warm against his lips. Two weeks of convincing himself that his infatuation with the oldest Lightwood could finally be put to rest.

And now he’s here.

“I. Hi,” Alec says, and Magnus has to bite down on his lip to keep his smile from widening. Alec Lightwood fumbling over his words wasn’t something he knew he needed in his life until this very moment, but now it seems as essential as the need for air conditioning in this stuffy shop. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“By all means,” Magnus says, sweeping his arms out to highlight the empty shop. “Interrupt away.”

“But your break. Your papers,” Alec says, nodding toward Magnus’s bag. “You don’t have to put them away. I’ll just –” He shuffles in place for a second, clearly looking for somewhere to sit.

“Maybe,” Magnus says, unable to keep the grin away now. “You could tell me what you want, I can serve it to you, and then we can have a break together.”

“I don’t want you to serve me.” The words, obviously out before Alec has time to think about them, break any semblance of nonchalance that Magnus has been trying to cultivate. He bursts into delighted laughter, and reaches under the counter to put two lemon cookies on a saucer. He takes a pitcher that has been self-stirring a delicious iced lemon tea for the better part of a half hour and pours it into matching cups.

“There,” he says, picking pushing the plate of cookies toward Alec and picking up both teacups with a flourish. “Since you let me serve this up, I’ll let you buy my tea.”

“Right.” Alec smiles – bright and radiant this time – and Magnus has an overwhelming urge to make it happen again. “Okay. I’ll just get a table.”

Though he tries not to, it’s impossible not to stare after Alec; he moves with unnatural grace, and looks nearly as good from this angle as he does face to face. But cognizant of the fact that someone could walk in at any moment, Magnus hurries after him, careful not to spill any of the tea.

Alec chooses a small wooden table near the back window – probably in the hopes that there will be some sort of breeze. He pushes a cup across the table to Alec, watching his reaction as he takes a tentative sip.

“This is – ” he pauses for a second, and Magnus knows that the taste is slowly transforming, echoing the subtle sweetness of the very cookie in front of him. “Amazing.”

“Thank you,” Magnus says, inclining his head. Rosa had agreed to let him experiment with the brews – it’s the closest thing he can do to potion-making this summer – and so far it has been a resounding success. “It’s my favorite creation so far.”

“You created this?” Alec’s face is open and guileless and the praise goes straight to Magnus’s head.

“Just last night in fact,” he says, taking a small sip for himself.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Alec says. As soon as the words leave his mouth he startles, eyes wide with panic once again. “I mean –”

“Please,” Magnus says, enjoying a very different sort of heat that’s spreading steadily across his stomach. “Tell me what you mean.”

“It just,” Alec says, fiddling with the side of his teacup. “You’re so talented. In potions. Very – you know. You’re a very good potion maker.”

Magnus takes another slow sip of tea and quirks an eyebrow at Alec, who looks just about ready to drown himself in his own cup.

“Do you think,” he asks, suddenly serious, “that my parents would obliviate me if I asked extremely nicely?”

For the second time since Alec walked into the shop Magnus is taken completely off guard, and he nearly snorts a mouthful of tea onto the freshly wiped table.

“Now that, Lightwood,” he says, lowering his voice to the same cadence he’d used at the party in the dungeons, “would be a travesty. If you erase this little encounter of ours, how are you going to remember that I have a shift on Wednesday that ends at three o’clock?”

Alec visibly startles and then slowly relaxes into a second heartfelt smile. Magnus would tell him that he shouldn’t wear his emotions so clearly – that it can only lead to trouble – but since it’s currently working to his advantage he keeps his mouth shut.

“Okay, yeah,” Alec says, biting happily into the lemon cookie. “I guess that’s worth making an idiot out of yourself.”

Magnus picks up his own cookie and takes a bite, not taking his eyes away from Alec’s. As he sits there, smiling like an idiot in the sweltering teashop, he pushes away the niggling thread of unease that threatens to unravel in his chest. He forgets briefly, under the influence of Alec Lightwood’s smile, that this is the most important summer of his life and that any distraction – no matter how adorable – is a threat to everything he’s been working toward. 

\--

**September 2017: First Month of 7th Year**

As with any typical Friday night, the Potions lab is empty when Magnus arrives. He’s had permission from Penhallow to come in here whenever he likes for years; there’s nothing he finds more soothing than the hiss of a simmering potion snaking through the empty room. He gathers his supplies – which are running dangerously low, he notes unhappily – from his space at the back and sets them out beside his cauldron. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he takes out his blade and starts slicing the ingredients into perfectly even pieces. He brews with a familiar ease, and is soon lost in the process.

If Josh is where he goes to find happiness, this is where Magnus comes to find peace. He stirs and chops, soothed by the repetitive motions. He experiments a little, adding a dash of murtlap to lower the pH of the solution, hoping that it will add the extra kick he needs to get rid of this migraine a little quicker than usual. By the time he’s finished there’s a cool silver mist rising from the top of his cauldron and the entire room smells hot and smoky. He pulls out a tiny vial from within the pocket of his robes and gathers some of the potion for himself before stoppering off the remainder to bring into Hogsmede.

Then, after cleaning up, he takes out his own vial and swallows the contents quickly. _The murtlap certainly hasn’t improved the taste_ , he thinks with a small shudder, but the relief from his migraine is almost instantaneous. Pleased, he pulls out a small notebook and one of the muggle pens that Tyler brought back for him at the beginning of term, and jots down the addition. Then, out of the recesses of his messenger bag, he grabs his ever-expanding to-do list.

“ _You are 12 items behind schedule_!” the list trills in a sharp tone as Magnus starts to unroll it. “ _Let me outline some time management strategies for you. First of all, you need to focus. If the doodles in your margins are any indication, you need to spend less time thinking about Al_ -“

Magnus jabs his wand at the list, willing it to shut up. The last thing he needs is _parchment_ telling him he’s too caught up on Alec. He crams the list back in his bag, figuring that if he starts with his Head Boy duties, he can get to the rest over the weekend.

He’s only got a few hours before midnight, and a ten o’clock shift tomorrow in Hogsmede, so he decides against drafting an outline for his upcoming Herbology paper, and instead heads off toward the main corridor. He waves his wand around in a series of precise movements, throwing up a few basic shields, and then sets off in the direction the third floor corridor – straight toward the statue of Belindonia the Bold, where he knows an obnoxious group of fourth years is about to congregate to try to test their dueling skills.

With any luck, he can make it to work tomorrow without a trip to the Hospital Wing. And, if on the off chance one of the little brats manages to slip a spell past his wards, at least he won’t be able to think about Alec if he’s unconscious.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few points: 
> 
> 1\. Rosa Lee Teabags - at least, according to Wikipedia - is located in *both* Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, which explains how Magnus ends up working at both. I just wanted to let people know in case they noted the discrepancy and thought it was mistaken :)
> 
> 2\. I started writing Malec fanfiction a long time ago - before we got to know anything about Ragnor Fell other than the fact that he was a Warlock who knew Magnus. So when I first wrote him (in a present day AU) he was a nerdy kid named Josh. That habit has been really hard to break (but it's always fun to find ways to explain myself in-fic). (Also, for the record, I think that Ragnor is a great name, but like Josh, I wouldn't want it to be *my* name)
> 
> 3\. I was really touched by all the feedback, and it inspired me to keep going with this. I really hope that you like it - please let me know what you think :) 
> 
> love! Sarah:)


	3. Chapter Three

**September, 2017: 7th Year**

Though he’s determined not to fall behind, after Magnus leaves it’s impossible for Alec to concentrate on his studies. What power do Potions and Transfiguration hold against the weight of his history with Magnus? For a time that he’d thought he’d reconciled and feelings he thought he’d erased, it all comes rushing back with frightening ease. All it took was five minutes alone with him and instead of the faint scratching of a quill and the slow, plodding thumps of Pince’s shoes against the stone floor, all he can hear is the sharp, punctuated gasp Magnus had uttered as Alec had kissed his neck in the fading autumn light last term, pressed up against the stacks and sheltered by a hastily muttered spell, beyond caring if anyone caught them. And instead of the light cross-breeze that gently ruffles his parchment, all he can feel is the electric spark of Magnus’s fingers brushing along the edge of his arm, tracing patterns into his skin, and the phantom weight of Magnus’s long legs tangled up in his. Memories of furtive touches and stolen kisses are cached in every corner of this library, and now – with thoughts of Magnus at the forefront of his mind – Alec can’t stop them from surfacing.

With a weary sigh he packs his books away for the second time and heads off toward the common room. He debates heading out to the Quidditch pitch for a quick fly, but that would mean small talk and group chats and answering unwanted questions. Instead, he heads off in the direction of the kitchens, wondering if he can get the House Elves to sneak him a snack on the way.

When he finally arrives – laden down with more pastries than his entire house could finish in a night– the common room is blissfully quiet. There are a couple of third years spread out along the floor, pillows propping up their chests as they flip through albums full of summer photos, but otherwise the area is abandoned. He finds a comfortable sofa near the window and pulls out his new copy of _Advanced Rune Translation_.

The edition had been updated over the summer, and this is the first opportunity he’s had to really go through it. For hours he pours over its pages, noting any differences from the previous, and reading far beyond the chapters assigned in class. He copies out meticulous notes, translating with ease, and here, in the space where cypher transmutes into knowledge, not even thoughts of Magnus can penetrate his calm. Unlike with Potions, Ancient Runes is in his _blood_  – his parents, so caught up in diplomacy and position, may have forgotten where the Lightwoods started, but Alec hasn’t.

He’s working on a particularly tricky passage when the door to the common room swings open, and a throng of bodies enters, interrupting Alec’s peace. He stretches, setting the heavy textbook aside, and sees Tyler walk up with two of their team’s newest members.

“I’ll let you know when the first official practice is going to take place,” he says, catching Alec’s eye.

“Aye-aye, captain!” The girls, who must have been getting used to the pitch, give a tired salute and move slowly toward their dormitory, trailing dust and bits of dandelion fluff in their wake.

Tyler settles onto the chair across from Alec. Unlike the new girls, he looks as pristine as ever – the only sign he’s even been on a broom is his unruly tangle of brown hair, and even that looks purposeful. He opens his mouth to talk, but Alec interrupts before he’s uttered a word.

“If you’re going to apologize for not telling me about Magnus getting shortlisted for the Fairbright,” Alec says, “then don’t bother.” He moves back to his book, hoping that Tyler will just leave – that he won’t have to see him again until their next Quidditch practice.

“Alec, you know why I couldn’t tell you.” Tyler looks earnest and contrite – and worse, Alec knows that he genuinely feels that way – but it doesn’t matter. The fact that Tyler was protecting Josh’s – and by association, Magnus’s – privacy doesn’t make the whole thing hurt any less. It had taken months for him to get used to being on the outside – to watching Tyler continue to sit at the end of the Slytherin table with Josh and Magnus, his own seat forgotten – and he’d thought he was over it.

As with so many things, he’d obviously thought wrong.

“Are you sure that helping Magnus is the best idea?” Tyler looks worried now, and Alec’s resolve wavers under his Captain’s concern.

“No,” he replies, knowing there’s no use to lie – he knows he wears his every emotion on his face, and Tyler has always been particularly adept at reading people. Alec’s not sure if it’s because he’s muggle-born – and he’s not really sure that it’s polite to ask – but Tyler has a much better appreciation for interpersonal dynamics than many of the students at Hogwarts. Magic tends to lead to shortcuts, and that shortsighted reliance seems to be a trait that’s inherited as surely as hair or eye colour. Tyler, Alec has noticed, doesn’t fall victim to that shortcoming. He takes the time to understand people and what drives them; it’s why he’d fallen so hard for Josh, Alec is sure.

“It’s probably the worst possible idea,” Alec continues with a short, sharp laugh. “But do you have a better one?”

Torn between loyalty to his boyfriend’s best friend and concern for his teammate, Tyler just shifts in his seat. “Maybe you could – ”

“It’s going to be fine, Tyler,” Alec interrupts. “And don’t worry – it’s not like I’m going to let it affect my on-field performance.”

“I don’t care about the field,” Tyler says quietly. He runs a hand through his windswept hair – a nervous gesture Alec’s seen a million times, both on the field and off. “I care because we’re friends.”

“We used to be friends,” Alec says tightly. Tyler had made his choice, and Alec doesn’t begrudge him that, but it would be a lie to call them _friends_. They have barely spoken outside of games since Magnus called things off. Tyler’s loyalty is to Josh and Josh’s to Magnus. It’s a simple equation, and Alec is just a variable that no longer fits. He doesn’t care what Tyler does – and frankly, he doesn’t need any friends. What he needs is to focus on his studies and get away from this school and all the memories it holds. Emotions are nothing but a distraction, and Alec refuses to let himself be ruled by them. “Right now, you’re my Captain. So unless you have a practice to fill me in on or a strategy to discuss, I’ll just get back to my reading.”

Recognizing the dismissal for what it is, Tyler just nods slowly. He’s hurt, even Alec can tell that much, but he doesn’t press.

“Watch out for your sister,” he says quietly as he rises. “I found her hanging around outside, waiting for someone to come along. I told her you weren’t here right now, but she wasn’t showing any signs of leaving.” He waits a second, but when Alec doesn’t reply he gets up quietly and walks toward the sixth year dormitories. Alec doesn’t watch him leave – doesn’t look up at all until his footsteps have faded out of view.

 _So Izzy knows_ , he thinks, pressing hard enough on his quill that ink bleeds through his parchment and onto the textbook propped below. _Of course she does_. Sighing, he lets the notes fall to the floor, and stretches out until his feet hang off the edge of the sofa. The last few people shuffle out of the room, and once he’s alone he closes his eyes and takes deep, settling breaths, waiting for his thoughts to slow. He lies like that for hours, waiting and wishing and wanting, until light starts to bleed through the stained glass windows, bringing with it absolutely no relief.

\--

It’s the second weekend of term, and while everyone else is enjoying the September sun, Magnus is stuck waiting on the loudest witches in Hogsmeade. The Cackles, as Josh dubbed them after a particularly rambunctious encounter last year, have been coming to Rosa Lee’s every Saturday morning for as long as Magnus has been working there. He’ll never admit it, but sometimes he actually feels a sort of fondness for them, with their ugly hats, ridiculous advice about snagging a “classy young witch”, and inability to order anything other than Pumpkin juice – which hasn’t even been on the menu for nearly three years.

But today he wishes that he could just banish the lot of them to Siberia. It’s three hours into his eight-hour shift, and they’re the only ones in the shop. They’ve been there for a solid ninety minutes, and though they haven’t ordered anything new, they don’t show any signs of moving. It had taken significant maneuvering to even _get_ this shift: convincing Headmaster Heronadale that he could still handle having a job, even with his Head Boy duties and upcoming NEWTS, filling out the requisite paperwork that allowed him to leave campus, finding a Professor to escort him to Hogsmeade – as if he was some kind of helpless _first_ year – and begging the Head Girl, Lydia Branwell, to cover his day duties. He hates being indebted to _Gryffindors_ of all people – they have a knack for finding the stupidest ways to get into trouble, which means that bailing them out of it is always a headache. And what has he received for all this trouble? A handful of Sickles and a burgeoning migraine.

Simply making it to work today had been nothing short of an ordeal; an irritation capping a week that has fast become one of his least favorite in a life that has given him many to choose from. So when the Cackles demand that he come over and enumerate the day’s flavours – for the third fucking time – he feels he’s justified in being just a _little_ cranky. He’s trying to work through this crankiness in a calm and reasonable way – a way that _doesn’t_ involved slipping a puking pastille into their pitcher of Dragonberry iced tea – when a slight tinkle signals the entrance of someone into the shop.

Furious at the interruption and hating his life – and whoever the customer is, even before he looks up to see them – he jabs his wand at the pitcher, stirring it a little too vigorously.

His less-than-therapeutic tea sabotage is interrupted by a girlish squeal. “You just _have_ to go out there,” the new customer gushes, grabbing Magnus’s attention. “They have the _cutest_ Niffler and he’s bringing everyone jewels!”

The Cackles, apparently unable to hold out when there’s a Niffler in play, race out of the shop in a tangle of unruly hair and feathered hats, and the customer approaches the counter, lowering her hood in time with the clicking of her stilettos.

Magnus’s delight at getting a reprieve from the Cackles dissipates as quickly as it had bubbled up.

“Isabelle,” he says mildly, summoning the closest approximation of a smile he can muster. It’s been nearly a year since she’d cornered him in the dungeons, furious and indignant, and though it’s not quite as painful as seeing Alec, they’d spent enough time together to make her sudden appearance sting. “Lifting the Bane-ban are we? I thought I had at least another ten years of silence to look forward to.”

Isabelle just pulls her hair out of her cloak and settles in at the table, pouring herself a cup of the Cackles’ tea without asking. She throws a handful of Sickles on the counter, the corner of her mouth curling up as Magnus flinches at the sound. She _knows_ how much he hates taking her money; he’s sure that’s why she did it. Once he drops the coins into the till she makes a show of taking out her wand and placing it on the counter between them. Another calculated move – and he recognizes it for the threat she means it to be.

“Nice job clearing the room,” he says, absently wiping glasses to keep his hands busy below the counter. “Not exactly the rough and tumble approach I’d expect – someone might think you were auditioning for a spot in my house.”

This time it’s Izzy who flinches, and Magnus tramps down on the instant rush of guilt. He understands her complicated relationship with Slytherin – probably better than anyone but Alec – and he knows better than to throw it in her face. Just like he understands why Izzy can’t stand him – to be perfectly fair, he can’t stand himself when he thinks too hard about the things he’s done.

“Do you remember what I told you the last time we talked?” Izzy’s voice is low and dangerous, and if Magnus didn’t know how much she valued her spot at Hogwarts, he’d already be running. Izzy is probably one of the most proficient duelists at Hogwarts – faculty included – and there’s no one higher on her shit list than Magnus.

“Your brother is a big boy, Isabelle. I’m pretty sure he’s capable of making his own decisions.” Magnus waves his wand and sends a stack of newly cleaned cups to their positions on the rickety shelving unit across the room.

Isabelle leans across the counter, her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think he is, Magnus. Not when it comes to you.”

Ignoring the painful constricting of his chest, Magnus shuffles in place. He needs to get out of this conversation – out of this room altogether. But before he can figure out a way to politely ask Isabelle if she’s finished, she makes a sudden leap across the counter. It’s excessive – as are most of the things she does, he knows from experience – but effective. She reaches out and slams her hand on the counter, cutting off his escape route.

Magnus reaches down and gently removes her arm before stepping around. “Try to remember that I’m not just your brother’s ex-boyfriend. I’m your Head Boy, and even if you hate me that means you have to show at least a modicum of respect. Threatening aside, you do know that I could have you in detention for weeks just for showing up here?”

Isabelle grins – a flash of pointed teeth against the deep red of her lips. “You do know that if you hurt my brother again, I’ll wear your skin as a cloak?”

Magnus doesn’t doubt that for a second. And honestly, there are so many things he wants to tell her – that he wants to explain to her – but he knows that none of them would make a difference. None of them will get him his friend back, because in the end, Isabelle is absolutely right: he did hurt her brother. And he did it willingly and without hesitation, with full awareness of what the fallout would be.

“This is a mutually beneficial agreement, Isabelle,” Magnus says, echoing the sentiment he’d given Josh. He pushes past her, irritation threatening to supersede his guilt. He’s never done well with mistakes, and he realizes that that all of this is his fault – that he should have just accepted Tyler’s offer and left Alec out of the equation altogether. Still, what’s done is done. Despite Isabelle’s posturing, her brother had made his choice. “Alec understands that it’s nothing more.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Isabelle hesitates for a second, waiting for Magnus to respond, before swinging her cloak back over her shoulders. “I knew you were an ambitious bastard, Magnus,” she finally says, her voice a little softer now, “but I didn’t think you were cruel.”

Magnus ignores the barb in favour of slipping past to spruce up the wilting flowers adorning the tables. “Get out of here, Isabelle,” he says coldly, crossing his arms as she flicks her hood back into place. “And if I catch you out of the castle without permission again, then I will make sure that Herondale knows.”

Izzy just sweeps toward the door without a backward glass. “So great to catch up,” she says, and then disappears out onto the street.

\--

After spending most of Saturday hiding out in his dormitory, away from Izzy or any of the innumerable students she might have spying for her, he makes a break from the castle as early as possible on Sunday morning. He’s out on the grounds before anyone else is awake, carrying with him a thermos of hot tea and one of the stale leftover pastries that the house elves had given him on Friday. He walks leisurely through the grounds, debating whether he should settle in at the edge of the lake or head down toward the greenhouses to check on the shrivelfig he’s been trimming since the term began.

Before he can make a decision, he spots a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. At first it’s just a shimmer in the morning mist – a momentary shift in the light that could be easily ignored if Alec hadn’t seen its like many times before. He moves toward the translucent shape, drawing it into the shadows so that he can see its full form.

Once they reach the shelter of a group of willows, the large cat materializes into view.

“Alec,” the cat purrs. “It’s time for you to make good on our little arrangement. Meet me at the Quidditch pitch in fifteen minutes.”

Alec doesn’t answer; he merely nods and watches as the cat burns away with the mist, leaving nothing but sunlight behind. He changes trajectory, biting off a piece of his pastry as he hustles toward the Quidditch pitch, wondering what Magnus could possibly want and trying to forget all the times he’d hurried across campus like this, guided by a secret message and giddy with the anticipation of Magnus’s undivided attention.

\--

The first time Alec saw Magnus’s Patronus he’d just returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year. He’d spent the summer making clumsy excuses to go to Diagon Alley, and had spent endless hours bent over books at Rosa Lee Teabags, sneaking glances at Magnus as he wiped down tables or mixed concoctions, desperate for the stolen moments when the shop was empty and Magnus would come over to talk. It had been a whirlwind of a break, escalating from prolonged gazes and flirty innuendo to drawn-out kisses and heart-pounding touches in every tucked-away corner of Wizarding London.

Alec lived for the days when he could follow Magnus out of the shop and into the world; the gray monotony of his otherwise unremarkable existence became brighter and more immediate when he experienced it with Magnus. He felt more alive that summer than at any other point in his life. He smiled more, worried less, and breathed easier when he had Magnus close to him. They bought food at greasy roadside trucks in Muggle London, eating and talking along the banks of the Thames as they waited for the light to fade so that they could sneak into exclusive shows by bands Alec had never heard tell of before. Magnus dressed Alec in clothes that made no sense to him, but which he happily wore anyway, just because of the way Magnus would look at him after. They spent many a heated night pressed against the walls of muggle clubs, base pounding in their ears and blood rushing through their veins in a chaotic symphony as they kissed like it was their last night on Earth.

And they never once discussed Hogwarts. It should have been a sign, that distinct lack of communication, but Alec was just too afraid that their relationship – if he even dared to think of it in such a way – had a set expiry date.

On the first day of the term, Alec, unsure of what he was expected to do and terrified of being rejected – or worse, ignored – fled to the back of the Express to sit with Izzy and Jace just as he had since they came to Hogwarts the year after him. He caught a glimpse of Magnus on the platform, flanked as always by Josh – who was still going by Ragnor at that time – and fled before he had to face the possibility of no longer being relevant. He avoided even _looking_ at the Slytherin table through the sorting ceremony, and left for his dormitory as soon as he was able. For that entire night he lay awake in his bed, mouth dry and heart hammering, warding away the waves of nausea that cycled with his anxious thoughts.

Before he could do something truly stupid – like seek Magnus out – the large cat found him. It waited, nestled between the barrels outside the Hufflepuff Common Room, for him to emerge, and then _pounced_. Paralyzed with fear until he heard Magnus’s smooth voice – coloured, Alec was almost sure, with a tinge of genuine hesitancy – ask him to meet up in one of the abandoned classrooms on the fourth floor. It wasn’t until he was nearly halfway there that Alec realized what the spell must have been – and how impressive it was that a sixth year student could cast it. At the time he’d just added it to a long list of things about Magnus that amazed him, giving no further thought to why or how he’d learned it. He’d been so caught up in being noticed – in being wanted – by the person he’d wanted for so long, that he could think of nothing else.

\--

By the time he makes it to the pitch, Magnus is already there. And though it’s barely six o’clock, Magnus looks like he’s ready for a spread in _Witch Weekly_. Alec’s not sure if he’s got some kind of potion he’s concocted to make his face stay like that or if he’s honestly just genetically blessed, but he’s never known Magnus to look anything less than perfect.

He’s so distracted by Magnus’s face, in fact, that he’s almost upon him by the time he notices the broomstick in his hand. It’s a Comet 360 – standard loaner broom from Hogwarts – and he’s gripping the handle tightly enough that Alec’s surprised the wood isn’t starting to buckle.

“Never thought I’d see the day that you had one of those in your hand.”

Magnus jolts as if shocked, but the look is quickly replaced with a smirk. “I usually handle a different kind of wood.”

It’s flippant and crude and exactly the kind of remark that used to make Alec double over with laughter – or at least roll his eyes – but now it just feels like a punch in the gut. It must show, because Magnus puts his hands up in supplication.

“Okay, okay, that was bad. But you have to admit you walked into that one. You’ve always been so easy.”

As soon as the words are out, Alec knows they were a mistake, if only because he’s never seen Magnus’s face leech of colour so fast. He moves toward Alec, scrambling to apologize – not something that happens often – but Alec cuts him off with a quick flick of his wrist. There are some things, after all, that he can’t bear to let himself think about, or this entire enterprise will be over before it even has a chance to begin.

“Forget about it, Magnus. Why don’t you just tell me what we’re doing here?”

Magnus moves closer still, the broomstick tucked under his arm like it’s an accessory rather than a piece of sporting gear.

“I need you to get me a spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team.” He shoves the broom at Alec, as if desperate to get it away from him. “They’re down two chasers and the try-outs are in ten days.”

For a second Alec just gapes. “Magnus,” he says when he finally pulls himself together, “you _hate_ to fly. You haven’t been on a broom in years.”

“Correction,” Magnus says, holding out his hand to take the broom again. “I _hadn’t_ been on a broom in years. The hundreds of hours I put in this summer would prove you wrong on that account.”

“But, _why_?” For as long as Alec has known him – or rather, known of him – Magnus has been afraid to fly. Though he’s easily the most talented wizard to come out of Hogwarts in a generation, he’s never made it further than five feet off the ground. Alec had teased him mercilessly, back when he’d had the chance – it was basically the only advantage he’d ever had against Magnus, and he’d used it to excess.

“The Fairbright was established as a Scholarship for those who would become future leaders,” Magnus says. “ _Those with the moral force of character and instincts to lead_. Athletics have always been part of the selection process, and team sports are looked upon more favourably. _Quidditch_ is looked upon the most favourably. You _know_ this.”

“But they moved away from that years ago,” Alec protests. “It’s unfair to those who can’t participate in organized sports, even if they wish otherwise.” _We talked about this_ , he wants to add. _And about how you don’t need Quidditch – not when you have everything else_.

“Yes, well.” Magnus purses his lips, trying, for once, Alec thinks, to hold back. “There are lots of things about the Wizarding World that they want us to believe have changed, but I’m not seeing those changes trickle down.”

“They?” Alec says stupidly.

“Yes, _they_ ,” Magnus grits. “People like the Fells and the Parkinsons and the Herondales. People like Prime Minister Grayson. People like the hundreds of parents who lost their shit when Maia was accepted to campus and when the tabloids snapped a picture of Josh and Tyler in Hogsmeade. The people who want to _say_ it’s okay to be a werewolf or a muggle-born or to have values that deviate from the idiotic norms that led to the last war, but they don’t actually want those changes to _affect_ them in any significant way. They want to be horrified at the world, but not actually have to change anything about their lives.”

“People like my parents,” Alec says quietly.

Magnus’s face softens slightly. “We can’t be held accountable for our parents,” he says. “Anyway, we’re not here to discuss politics.” He flicks his wand toward the broom shed across the pitch, and within seconds Alec’s own Firebolt Supreme zooms across the lawn and straight into his hand.

“You really want to do this?” Alec says. “All because you think it’ll look better on your application?”

“I’ve given up so much for this,” Magnus says, looking distinctly away from Alec as he replies. “I’m not about to let a _broomstick_ be the thing that stops me.”

Quidditch is so much more than a broomstick. It’s so much more than flying – it’s quick reflexes and ball control and balance, and years of skills that Magnus hasn’t built up. It’s _dangerous_ , and Alec’s not sure that he wants any part of getting Magnus bludgered into the hospital wing.

“So what are you going to do when they interview you?” he presses, unwilling to let this go. “You’re just going to lie and tell them you love Quidditch? Can’t imagine life without it?”

And the thing is, Alec knows without a doubt that Magnus will be able to answer those questions perfectly. If he thinks that this is his way to the Fairbright he probably spent his summer pouring over Quidditch books, watching old matches, and memorizing famous plays. If he thinks this is the missing piece of his application, he probably knows the theoretical aspect of Quidditch better than anyone in the school. That’s just _Magnus_. It’s part of what makes him so formidable – his unflagging dedication.

“Of course I’ll lie,” Magnus snaps. It’s only because of how well he knows him – or knew him, Alec supposes – that he can tell that Magnus is hurting.

“Actually, you know what?” Magnus says, glaring up at Alec fiercely. “Fuck your judgment, because it _won’t_ be a lie – because in the moment, that exact moment that they ask me I will love Quidditch more than anything. And if it gets me this scholarship, I will love this horrifying, mind-numbing sport until the day I die.”

“Yeah.” Alec rolls the handle of his broomstick back and forth in his hand, thinking that if he ranked half as highly as this scholarship maybe this wouldn’t hurt as much. Thinking that maybe Magnus never knew him at all, if he thinks that judgment is what’s delaying this session. As much as he’d admired him for it – and as much as he’d loved when it was directed toward him, Magnus’s single-mindedness could be infuriating. “Slytherins do what’s necessary, right?”

Magnus flinches, and for a moment Alec feels a burst of wild, vindictive pleasure. He tries to tramp down on that feeling – he agreed to this because he needs something from Magnus. That, at least, hasn’t changed, and bringing emotions into the equation will only create problems that neither of them need. If Magnus wants to make the Quidditch team, then Alec will help him make the Quidditch team. He’ll let him get himself killed for this fucking scholarship if that’s what he wants.

“Alec, wait a second. I just –”

“Forget about it, Magnus” Alec says, pushing off from the ground. “We don’t have a lot of time on our hands, so let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magnus's Patronus is a Borneo Bay cat, which is endemic to Borneo and quite rare to photograph. Not a lot is known about it because it's so elusive, and I thought that was really just perfect for Magnus. 
> 
> There's an italicized quote about the Fairbright which was taken from the Wikipedia page about the Rhodes scholarship (they're meant to be parallels) 
> 
> The line about emotions obviously came from season one of Shadowhunters :) 
> 
> \--
> 
> This story is really trying to kill me. It's immense and painful and I feel so anxious whenever I go to post a chapter. 
> 
> Please, let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Annie, for all the help (and cheerleading!) :)

** September 2017: 7th Year **

If there’s one positive thing to be said about Quidditch, Magnus thinks, it’s that the practicing of it knocks every bit of energy from his body. It’s been four days so far – four days of being up before dawn and sneaking to and from the pitch before anyone can see him – and his every muscle aches. He’d thought he was in pretty good shape after a summer of a near constant rotation of flying, running, and lifting the ancient set of weights that Tyler had dropped off at his apartment at the end of term, but this is something else altogether.

Alec is relentless. He’s quiet and withdrawn to a degree that makes it hard for Magnus to breathe, but he’s also focused. Whatever his motivation, he’s obviously taking this agreement seriously, and if Magnus doesn’t make the team, he knows it won’t be from a lack of effort on the part of Alec Lightwood.

And so, Magnus relishes the fatigue. He embraces the bone-deep weariness and the utter and total mental drain of flying, feinting, catching, throwing, and blocking, because it means that he has no time or energy to spend thinking about Alec. Magnus can’t fret about the way Alec seems to shrink whenever they come within a foot of each other, because he’s too busy trying to stay upright. He can’t focus on the permanent furrows between Alec’s eyes, because he’s concentrating on keeping his own eyes open long enough to make it back to the castle for the day’s classes. And he can’t dwell on the fact that he hasn’t seen Alec smile – not once, since he finally talked to him that day in the library – because he’s simply too tired to _think_.

It doesn’t take long for Alec to notice. It’s nearly a week after their first practice – Saturday morning, and hours before anyone on campus should even think of being awake – when they stumble out onto the field. Alec, laden down as always with early morning treats from the House Elves, who obviously adore him as much as ever, takes a single look at Magnus and says, “Nope. Turn around, we’re taking a break.”

“The hell we are.” Magnus plants his feet firmly in the ground, swaying just a little from the sudden movement. Evidently after a night as restless as his – which he spent in the hospital wing with an infuriating fourth year who thought it would be a grand idea to sneak out of the castle and into the Hippogriff pen – not even his own Pepperup potion can hide the depth of his fatigue. “We’ve only got three days before try-outs.”

“You won’t be trying out for anything if you’re in the hospital wing,” Alec says, belligerent. In moments like this one it amazes Magnus how different Alec is from the shy, fumbling boy who snuck into the Slytherin Common Room with his sister a year and a half ago; he knows he shouldn’t be that surprised – he isn’t nearly the same person either. “You need to rest.”

Pulled from his thoughts only to be met with Alec’s stubborn scowl, Magnus knows better than to argue. Whatever sway he held over the eldest Lightwood in the past is now an expired commodity.

He sighs and flops onto the ground; the dew hasn’t yet had time to burn up from the grass, and with a swish of his wand he summons up a blanket and rolls onto it. Alec, who’s watching him with obvious apprehension – though whether it’s because he’s afraid of needing to bring him to the hospital wing or because he’s afraid of just having to engage in conversation, Magnus isn’t sure – hovers at the edge of the blanket, flipping his broom from hand to hand.

“Just sit,” Magnus finally snaps, a little harsher than he intended. “I’m not going to bite you.”

Alec looks away and for the thousandth time since they started these lessons, Magnus feels an uncomfortable admixture of guilt and annoyance. For the thousandth time since they started these lessons, he wonders if he made the wrong choice. Isabelle’s accusation of cruelty feels incredibly apt when Alec is staring down at him like he’s one poorly worded joke away from a breakdown, heartbreak etched in the sharp edge of his frown and the tense line of his shoulders.

“You should go back to bed,” Alec says, ignoring the offer. “You need to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep now,” Magnus counters. “I’ve been awake too long. I’ll just lie there, thinking of everything I need to get done.”

Alec nods slowly, and it’s almost tortuous, how easy he is to read. “I remember,” he finally says, shuffling a little on the grass. “But I still don’t think you should fly this morning.”

Magnus sighs heavily before clambering up from the ground. Unfortunately, he rises a little too quickly, and his foot slips on the wet grass. His reaction time is so slow – and his muscles are so sore – that he doesn’t even have the foresight to throw his arms out to catch himself. He’s about to go down in a tangle of flailing limbs when Alec rushes forward.

One second he’s tipping, a wild rush of adrenaline flooding his body and numbing his executive functioning, and the next he’s surrounded by solid muscle. He freezes, instantly paralyzed by the feeling of having Alec’s arms wrapped around him. Somehow he’d forgotten, in the year that’s gone by, how _warm_ Alec always is. He’s warm and solid and smells exactly like he used to, and that’s enough to spark a pulse of longing that he has to try to wrestle back into dormancy. Magnus has tried so hard for so long to leave Alec alone, but he’s just so tired, and it’s so easy right now, in this quiet moment between breaths, to imagine that Alec _wants_ to hold him, despite everything. To imagine that they can fall back on the blanket, free of responsibilities or repercussions, wrapped up in each other like they’ve gone back in time a year.

An eternity plays by in the seconds between Magnus’s misstep and Alec’s realization of what he’s done, but it’s not nearly long enough to satisfy Magnus’s desire. It is, however, just long enough to remind him of everything he’s worked so hard to forget.

“You need to be careful.” Alec – with far more gentleness than Magnus is expecting – lowers him back down on the blanket. Then, only after making sure making sure that he’s seated as far away from Magnus as possible, he takes a spot for himself. He aggressively shoves one of his scones over at Magnus, as if daring him not to take it. “Eat.”

In the space of a single bite, Alec has rummaged around in his bag for a bottle of water, and is thrusting that across the blanket with perhaps even greater ferocity. Once Magnus is sure that Alec will be satisfied with his intake, he breaks the heavy silence.

“If you’re not going to train me, then maybe we should head down to the dungeons.”

“The dungeons.” Alec’s voice is flat – emotionless – and though it kills Magnus to hear that and not be able to _fix_ it, he just nods.

“It’s about time I started to make good on my side of the bargain. I’ve got a couple of first-year essays I’ve got to grade for Penhallow, anyway.”

It takes a second for Alec to answer, and Magnus can only imagine what’s going through his mind. Much like the library, the potions lab is weighted in history; going there is going to be painful, but it’s something that must be done. And what are they if not two people who understand intimately the reality of pushing past pain in order to do what’s necessary?

\--

** September 18th, 2016: 6th Year **

Magnus spends most of his free period the way that he’s spent the majority of the past three months: thinking about Alec Lightwood. He’d caught a glimpse of him in the Great Hall at breakfast, hair askew after what must have been an early morning Quidditch practice, and he can’t stop obsessing over the way it had looked – and how much he wants to see Alec’s hair rumpled for _other_ reasons. That tangle of black hair is enough to make him want to tramp down to the pitch this weekend to take in a game – an idea miraculous enough in itself, without taking into account the fact that he would have to give up a shift for it.

He thinks about Alec all the way from the library into the depths of the castle. He thinks about him as he follows the familiar path down to the dungeons and wheels around corners to the potions lab. He thinks about him so much, actually, that when he _sees_ him he thinks for a second that he might be hallucinating.

Except, in none of his imaginings has Alec ever looked so _stressed_. He’s bent over a cauldron beside none other than Tyler – the beautiful Quidditch Captain of Ragnor’s dreams – and is genuinely sweating with anxiety. The steam coming from his potion is a lurid pink as opposed to the dusty rose that Magnus knows it should be, so the anxiety isn’t completely unwarranted. He watches as Alec tosses in a handful of African sea salt, not taking the time to fold it in or make sure that it’s evenly distributed. The potion hisses, and instead of the slight shimmer that’s supposed to rise to the top layer, Magnus can identify the exact second that the potion starts to harden into an impenetrable sludge.

“Okay, that’s time,” Penhallow calls from the front of the room, completely unaware of – or at least entirely unsympathetic to – his students’ panic. “Stopper up a sample of your potion and bring it to the front.”

Magnus watches as Alec whispers something urgent in Tyler’s ear and the pair of them try to soften up enough of the potion to get it in the bottle. Unable to bear watching Alec suffer – especially when the solution is so obvious – he removes his wand and mutters a quick spell. A bottle of Sulphur Vive moves from its place on Alec and Tyler’s workstation and tips casually over into the potion.

Magnus stifles a grin as he watches Alec curse, and the grin softens into a genuine smile as he watches an off-pink mist – not perfect, but definitely better than what they were about to submit – rise up from the cauldron. Tyler quickly scoops up a vial full of the potion and rushes it to the front before anything else can go wrong. Alec sags in relief before turning to pack up his things, and Magnus takes that opportunity to walk into the classroom.

“Ah, Magnus,” says Penhallow, looking up from the throng of students just long enough to see him make an entrance. “The potions you’re looking for are in the back cupboard. Once you’ve finished the marking just send the grades over to my office. Hal will be happy to receive them.”

Hal, the particularly cantankerous portrait of Penhallow’s Great-Uncle (and former Potions Master at Beauxbatons) has never been happy to receive anything as far as Magnus knows, but he keeps that little tidbit to himself.

“I’ll get right to work,” Magnus says, and sets off toward the back. He can feel Alec’s eyes on him, and when he glances up he’s met with Alec’s signature brand of enticing: flushed cheeks, lips caught between perfect teeth. It’s almost enough to make Magnus rush forward and kiss him then and there.

But he knows he can’t. Even if he _wanted_ to, Alec’s parents don’t even know he’s gay. They’re an old wizarding family, and whatever the school would like to have everyone believe, there’s not much support for kids who are struggling with issues outside the main curriculum.

So instead of pressing himself all over Alec like a cat, he merely walks by, casually bumping into him as they pass in the aisle.

“Lightwood,” he says, inclining his head so that Alec can’t miss his smirk. As Alec mumbles a quiet _Magnus_ , failing at any semblance of subtlety, Magnus clicks his fingers and sends a note from the bottom of his bag straight into Alec’s hand. Alec looks momentarily alarmed – which quickly softens into a begrudging respect – and curls his fist tightly around the paper. He then ghosts out of the potions classroom – likely so that he can read the note as quickly as possible.

And just like that, Magnus knows Alec will follow the instructions – that he’ll be back here in a couple of hours, once the rest of the students have cleared out. By then, all the potions will be sorted and the two of them can have the room to themselves.

 _To study_ , Magnus tells himself. While thoughts of Alec’s hands and Alec’s hair and, Merlin help him, Alec’s _tongue_ , which he always seems to be running over his lips, have been occupying his mind for most of the day, he needs to pull himself together. On top of this extra work for Penhallow he also has an essay of his own to write and a set to plan for the Drama Club. Getting lost in thoughts of Alec is becoming far too easy, and he can’t afford distractions. He needs to buckle down and work, so that he can become something _more_. So that he can become the kind of person who deserves someone like Alec Lightwood.

~

By the time he hears Alec’s footsteps echoing along the stone floor of the dungeons, Magnus has already been through all the second year potions – and cleaned up the mess from the more disastrous attempts. It’s embarrassing, really, how someone could have managed to fuck up a simple forgetfulness potion – which is essentially a review from the year before – but it’s as if the second years exist to prolong Magnus’s torture.

He’s just finished scourgifying his robes and is sitting down to finish up his own essay on Golpalott’s Third Law when Alec walks into the room.

Magnus doesn’t need to look up to know that Alec is watching him; he’s so attuned to him by now, that he can _feel_ when Alec’s eyes are upon him. His own chemistry betrays him when it comes to Alec Lightwood, and sometimes he feels like he needs to resist the pull – even if it’s for as little as thirty seconds – just to prove that he still can. He writes half a line, pouring all his concentration into the simple act, and waits to see what Alec will do.

“Hey.” Alec, ever the cautious one, pulls up a stool and takes a seat across from Magnus. You would never guess that a little less than twenty-four hours ago he had Magnus pushed up against the dusty wall of a fourth-floor classroom, gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises, panting obscenities into the skin of his neck. Now, he’s hesitant to even brush their hands together – a laughable insecurity. As if Magnus would ever reject him. As if Magnus could ever share a space with Alec Lightwood and _not_ want to touch him.

“Hey yourself.” Magnus throws his quill down on the desk and slowly slides closer to Alec’s stool. More confident now that Magnus has made a move, Alec leans forward, brushing their lips together softly.

They’ve kissed hundreds of times by now, Magnus knows, and somehow something as simple and chaste as this still sets his blood on fire. His skin crackles with heat wherever Alec touches – it’s a dangerous rush, but whenever they’re together Magnus can’t bring himself to care.

“You saved my ass today, didn’t you?” Alec licks his lips as he pulls away, and though Magnus wants nothing more than to pull that tongue between his teeth, he just sits back and scratches another couple of words on his parchment.

“Well?” Alec presses, sidling up so that their legs are fully touching. He runs his lips along the edge of Magnus’s jaw. “Did you come to my rescue?”

Magnus swallows, letting his quill topple over on his paper. He debates for a second telling Alec the truth – that he couldn’t stand to see him look so defeated – but he knows that’s not what Alec’s looking for. So instead he slips out of his chair and moves forward, wedging his body between Alec’s open legs.

“And if I did?” he whispers, leaning in close.

“Well,” Alec says, his full lips curling into a smile. “I can certainly think of a couple ways to say thank you.” He stands abruptly, pushing the stool back with his heel. Then, pulling Magnus forward by the elbows, he walks backward until they’re flat against the cool stone of the dungeon wall. As Magnus leans in to press their lips together for a second time, Alec runs his hands underneath the billowing fabric of his robes, stopping only when they meet smooth skin.

“ _Merlin_ , Magnus,” he groans against Magnus’s lips. “You feel so good.”

And that – the sound of Alec’s broken voice – combined with the heat of his touch is almost enough to make Magnus forget the entire reason he invited Alec down here. The entire reason _he_ came down here in the first place. After years of spending all his free time in this classroom, of brewing potions and reading books far beyond his level, he knows that there are substances that can alter people’s senses. He can brew potions to liquefy muscle, inspire devotion, or muddle thoughts, but he’s sure that nothing that he’s ever made – nothing that he’s ever read about – could make him feel like this. Alec’s presence is stronger than any dose of Amortentia – if only for the simple fact that Magnus _wants_ to be consumed by him. In this moment – with an essay to finish, an outline to prepare, and a shift to try to squeeze in so that he can afford the new winter cloak he desperately needs before the snow comes – he wants nothing more than to waste away the night wrapped up in Alec’s arms.

Fighting the urge, he pushes Alec back gently.

“No thanks needed,” he says, grinning at the stupid smile on Alec’s face. “What’s needed is _practice_.” He waves his wand toward the back cupboard, and Alec’s cauldron floats from its place on the shelf to land smoothly beside Magnus’s half-finished essay.

Alec’s entire demeanor instantly sours, and Magnus can’t hold back a laugh this time.

“Don’t give me that look. Who’s going to save you the next time you’re one stir away from a Troll on your potions homework?”

Alec flushes bright red and grumbles his way back over to the stool. “It would have been a Dreadful at the very worst.”

“Oh well,” Magnus says, rolling his eyes. “I guess you don’t need me at all. You may as well head up to your dorm and rest easy.”

“Shut up.” Alec bumps his shoulder before taking a seat. “It’s not like I didn’t tell you I was rubbish at potions.”

“Yes, well.” Magnus thinks back to the crisis he helped avert earlier that day. “There’s _rubbish at potions_ and then there’s what I witnessed today.”

“Urghh.” Alec slumps forward, knocking his head off the desk. “Why bother? At this rate I’ll never be an Auror.”

“An Auror?” Magnus tries to hold back the curiosity, but it’s pointless – they’ve both skirted around the topic of what they want after Hogwarts, and though Magnus hasn’t mentioned anything about the Fairbright, he’s unfairly desperate for even the smallest scraps of information about Alec’s future.

“I know,” Alec says, sighing. “Everyone expects it from Isabelle. She’ll be a Hit-Witch her first year out, I expect. No one ever – I guess I don’t know what anyone expects from me. Well – ” he looks up at Magnus and smiles sadly, “ – unless you count marrying a pureblooded witch.”

“Zero for two,” Magnus says mildly, gesturing at his face. He’d known before they’d started this – whatever this is between them – that Alec’s family was pure-blooded trash. They had an ‘untainted lineage’ and certainly benefited from the the bank accounts and connections that so often accompanied that claim. They were exactly the kind of people that had looked down on Magnus his entire life.

Honestly, that first night in the dungeons, when he’d looked across the room and seen Alec Lightwood looking so _corruptible_ , knowing how much his parents would hate it had been half the fun. But now, hearing Alec talk about his duty and his family’s _expectations_ instantly sucks away any of Magnus’s good humor. Insecurity weighs heavily in his chest as he contemplates all of the ways that he falls short of the kind of partner the Lightwoods expect their son to choose. Even if Alec tells them about his sexuality – even if they accept their son for who he is – they will never accept Magnus. This will fizzle out in the way of many a Hogwarts romance – and perhaps that’s for the best. Magnus has bigger things to worry about – he always has.

“Magnus –”

He looks up to find Alec staring at him, face open and vulnerable. He’s looking at Magnus in a way he never has before – a way that screams of sadness and pity – and Magnus _hates_ it.

“Never mind any of that,” Magnus says breezily. “You can battle your parents over marriage prospects – or not, I suppose, if that’s what you choose – long after you’re out of this place. Right now, we should focus on something a little more immediate. Something that involves me.”

“Right.” Alec’s shoulders fall a little and he quickly turns his attention to the pile of slugs that’s materialized next to his cauldron. “I guess we’ll get started.”

They work in silence for a solid fifteen minutes. Magnus flies through his essay – work has always been the easiest way for him to unwind, as strange as it may seem – and the problems of Alec’s parents and his own shortcomings seem much less important as he loses himself to the intricate foundational theories of potion making. It’s only after he’s finished a particularly tricky paragraph that he looks up to find Alec completely massacring his slugs.

“Woah, woah! What are you doing?” He hurries out of his chair, stepping up on his toes for a second to peek into Alec’s cauldron. It’s bubbling along fine so far, being nothing more than a simple mixture of solvents, but Magnus knows that if Alec puts those half-mangled slugs in, his potion is already going to be beyond repair.

“What?” Alec looks around, trying to determine what the problem could possibly be. He double-checks the list of ingredients and then peers back up at Magnus. “I haven’t even _done_ anything yet,” he says, throwing his knife down. “Although if anyone was going to _think_ a garbage potion into existence, it would be me.”

“Not true.” Magnus picks up the knife and slides it back into Alec’s hand. His skin tingles slightly at the contact, and he lets his fingers linger along Alec’s wrist. “Your only mistake –the fundamental error of _most_ people who struggle with potions, incidentally – is that you’re not taking this seriously enough.”

“That is not – ”

“Shh.” Magnus holds a finger up to Alec’s lips. “These are volatile substances,” he continues, tracing his finger across the length of Alec’s jaw before removing it altogether. “And they should be treated with nothing but the utmost care.”

He steps behind Alec, snaking his hand around so that he can guide his motions. “You’ve got to cut along natural lines,” he instructs, pulling Alec’s hand back slowly, rubbing their elbows against the jutting line of Alec’s hip. “The measurements in these potions are based on very precise calculations. Hacking away like you did just now wastes so much of what you need.”

Alec swallows thickly, and his hand slips a little as he grabs the next slug. “Right,” he says, hastily moving to fix his mistake. “You’re absolutely right.”

Magnus moves his mouth closer to Alec’s ear. “I usually am,” he whispers, and then moves a touch lower to press his lips to Alec’s neck. He bites down softly, and the knife falls, forgotten as Alec grips the edge of the table with both hands.

“This is a completely inappropriate way to feel,” he breathes, stuttering as Magnus’s teeth scrape across his neck once again, “when you’re slicing up _slugs_.”

Magnus runs a hand up the inside of Alec’s wrist, delighting in the way he shivers. Any compunctions he’d had about wasting time are forgotten in the heady symphony of Alec’s ragged breaths. “Sparking inappropriate feelings is a hobby of mine.”

“Go figure, something else you’ve mastered,” Alec answers, pressing back into Magnus’s touch. He spins, wrapping his arms around Magnus’s neck as he moves. “I hope you know,” he adds, just before capturing Magnus’s lips in a heated kiss. “These lessons were a complete flop. I’m just going to have to fail potions – there’s no way I’m ever going to be able to think clearly in these dungeons again.”

\--

**September 2017: 7th Year**

Alec forces another scone on Magnus as they set off for the dungeons, and Magnus takes it – if only so that he has something to focus on other than Alec’s pointed silence. Though they take a shortcut through the castle, the walk seems agonizingly long – so long, in fact, that it lasts through not one, but _three_ , scones. By the time they reach the lab, not only have Magnus’s nerves been rubbed raw, but his stomach is in absolute upheaval.

Anxious to settle the clawing dread in his gut, Magnus breezes into the lab without as much as a glance back at Alec. He walks through the lab purposefully, as if he can banish their ghosts from the room through sheer force of will. With a quick flick of his wand he has Alec’s cauldron, scads of ingredients, and a stack of hastily scrawled first year essays sitting neatly on the table in front of them.

“We should probably look ahead to the next few potions on the syllabus,” he says without breaking stride. Not bothering to retrieve his wand from its place on the table, he flicks his hand toward his bag, nabbing the potions syllabus from the air as soon as it’s been spit out.

“Reflexes are coming along nicely,” Alec mumbles, eyeing the paper with no small degree of distaste.

“Yes, well.” Magnus runs the parchment between his fingers, grinning as he tries to catch Alec’s eye. “I have an excellent teacher.”

Alec doesn’t respond in the slightest – he just casually skims through the ingredients on the table, waiting for further instructions.

Magnus clears his throat and skims down through the outlined list of spells. “Right. So coming up in the next week we have Veritaserum. We’ll be brewing it over several classes, as it has to sit, and no doubt we’ll have a foot or two to submit about its properties afterward.”

Magnus glances up, just to make sure Alec is paying attention.

“I’ll leave the readings up to you,” he continues, once he’s reassured that he’s not being ignored. “Though I would encourage you to get them finished early. A good understanding of the reading will make the brewing of the potion that much easier.”

He slides his own copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ across the table. “Ignore the margins,” he warns. “A lot of those scribbles are just ideas, and it won’t do you any good to follow them.”

He settles into his chair and pulls the stack of first year essays closer. “The first few steps are quite basic,” he says. “Prepare the ingredients and then let me look at them before you so much as light a fire under your cauldron.”

Not waiting for answer, as he knows he’s not likely to get anything other than a brisk nod, Magnus starts in on the essays. After three years of working with Penhallow, he’s got the correcting algorithm perfected by now. For first years it’s simple enough: make sure the work is legible, that it comes from an actual source, and that they haven’t forgotten any key points. It’s simple work, with the potential to be tedious, but on most days he actually gains an immense satisfaction from seeing what these new students have written.

Today, unfortunately, is not most days, and the looming specter of his history with Alec casts a shadow on the entire enterprise. He grades one paper – slowly and likely not well – before glancing up to find that Alec hasn’t moved.

Not only has he not moved, he’s also staring at Magnus with a disconcerting solemnity. He looks _lost_ , and Magnus knows without having to ask that it’s not because of the potion.

“Are going to start?” Though he aims for casual, Magnus knows his words are stilted. When he tries to look back down to the essays, Alec’s hand shoots out, stopping just at the point where their fingers meet.

It’s the first time that Alec has touched him – willingly touched him, and not in an attempt to keep him from falling on his face – since last Christmas, and the shock alone is enough to stun Magnus into silence. He just sits there, unable to move and unsure of what he wants, until Alec speaks.

“Magnus, I know I – ” He hesitates, tripping over his words in a way that Magnus hasn’t seen since those early days in Hogsmeade, but he quickly regains composure. “I meant what I said in the library,” he continues.

 _Don’t make this into something it’s not_. Those words, flippant and callous, had settled at the forefront of Magnus’s mind – ready, even when Alec doesn’t bring them up, to remind him of exactly what this scholarship has cost him. And though he doesn’t _want_ this agreement to be anything more – he _can’t_ want it to be anything more – when Alec looks at him like that it feels as though his heart is being doused in aconite.

Alec moves slightly, curling his fingers into themselves, trapping Magnus’s hand in the firm grip. “The last thing I want to do is dredge up the past,” he says, his voice catching as if every syllable is painful. “But I just want to know how you can sit there, grading papers as if this isn’t the slightest deviation from your Saturday morning routine. Don’t you –” He swallows, and then draws his hand away. His whole body seems to fold in on itself as he meets Magnus’s eyes once again. “Isn’t this the least bit hard for you?”

For an instant, Magnus feels a rush of irrational anger. Anger toward Alec, for not _knowing_ how much this is affecting him. For not understanding – for never having understood – why things had to end. And once the anger toward Alec washes away, there’s an entire reserve to draw upon: anger at himself, for being the one to inspire such overwhelming sadness; anger at Cecil Fairbright and the idiotic requirements that had him turning to Alec for help in the first place; and anger at the world, for its many brands of injustice. It would be so easy to give into some of this anger – and for a moment, he _yearns_ for the release he knows it would bring. Conversely, it would be laughably easy – and would feel _so_ good – to give into the hurt and the pain, to seek comfort from the one person he knows could provide it.

But he hasn’t come this far by succumbing to his emotions. He hasn’t risen to the top of this school by allowing his heart to claim agency over his mind. He’s gotten where he is by doing what’s necessary – and that’s what he’ll continue to do.

So instead of lashing out or offering comfort, Magnus settles for the only reasonable alternative: the truth, tempered with as much gentleness as he can afford. “ _Life_ is hard, Alexander,” he says. He picks up a small knife and hands it across the table, making sure this time that their hands don’t touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the formatting a little. Since the flashback and the present-day scenes were so similar, I felt like I needed to be clearer about the timeline. I'll go back in and add the present timeline to the rest of the story. Not really sure why it takes place in 2016, but we'll just roll with it. 
> 
> It's been so lovely to hear all your thoughts so far. I keep saying this story is hard - and it is - but all the encouragement from you makes it much easier to sit down and keep writing :)


	5. Chapter 5

**September 2017: Seventh Year**

After the disastrous trip to the dungeons, things with Magnus have no choice but to improve. In the three days leading up to the try-out they spend copious amounts of time with one another – three hours before breakfast each morning, and then, when there’s no longer any real advantage to hiding Magnus’s interest in making the team, a couple of hours during the evening. For the evening practices Alec sits in the stands, under the pretense of checking out this year’s competition, and offers Magnus advice after the pitch closes.

Luckily, the Slytherin team is overhauling almost their entire roster this year. Their captain is a muggle born Chaser named Thomas Werther, and other than him they have two chasers and a single beater left over from the year previous. The lineup is fortuitously dry, which can only work in their advantage. People who may have otherwise turned up to try out for the position of Keeper might be swayed by the perceived prestige of playing as Seeker.

The morning of the try-outs dawns bright and clear. The air is crisp and cool, but the sun keeps any real bite from his fingers as Alec takes a quick turn around the grounds. There’s not even enough wind to flicker the surface of the Great Lake; it’s the perfect autumn day. The weather keeps up throughout his double Herbology class, and he spends his entire hour in the History of Magic classroom fretting about whether or not it has changed. Lydia, who notices him staring out the window at several points during their joint classes, kindly points out that he cannot glare the weather into submission, so he tries – with minimal success – to turn his mind to other pursuits.

It stays that way until dinner. If he manages to get the possibility of bad weather from his mind for five minutes, he’s plagued by a multitude of other disastrous possibilities. He frets and obsesses and basically misses an entire day’s worth of work because he can’t concentrate on his lectures for more than a few moments at a time. He tries, briefly, to tell himself that he shouldn’t care – that Magnus wouldn’t lose any sleep if their positions were reversed – but it’s pointless.

Once he files into the Great Hall alongside his housemates, he’s worked himself into quite an appetite. However, instead of settling in for a warm meal, he instead spends the first twenty minutes of his meal surveying the Syltherin table like a deranged hippogriff. He stares openly at Magnus, who is refusing to let so much as a slice of bread touch his plate, and knows that he’s likely planning to not eat anything at all. It’s a rookie mistake, letting nerves dictate your pregame routines, and it could easily cost him a spot on the team.

Feeling the need to do _something_ productive after the inanity of his afternoon, Alec reaches down to take a piece of paper and quill out of his bag, jotting a quick note and then folding it into a crudely fashioned airplane; with a flick of his wand he sends the plane across the Great Hall, where it touches down on Magnus’s plate. Clearly curious, Magnus picks it up and unfolds it carefully, smiling when he reads the order to EAT SOMETHING! He glances across the hall at Alec and pulls a face. Hating himself a little for the small rush of pleasure the exchange elicits, Alec just glares Magnus down until he finally scoops a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. Satisfied, he then turns around and finishes his own plate.

He’s about to head up to his room so that he can grab a scarf before heading down to the pitch, when Izzy slides onto the bench beside him.

“I thought you said that things were going to be different this time,” she says with no preamble. She leans over to pluck a piece of treacle tart from Alec’s plate, chewing slowly and staring him down until he finally speaks.

“Nice to see you too, Izzy,” he says, calmly pushing his plate away and stepping up from the table. “I’ve been doing well with the mountain of NEWT preparatory work, thanks for asking.”

Izzy mirrors his movements, sliding away from the bench with a graceful twist of her long legs. She rolls her eyes as she follows him down the aisle, and flicks at his bag, which is laden down with books.

“Like I need to worry about your homework,” she says, winking at a wide-eyed fifth year Ravenclaw as they exit the Great Hall. She waits until they’ve passed through several empty hallways before she grabs his arm, spinning him so that they’re face to face. “Stop deflecting,” she orders, her voice echoing through the cavernous hallway. “And tell me what was going on back there.”

Alec shrugs out of her grip and continues on his path back to the Hufflepuff dormitories. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, wishing that for once his sister were capable of just _dropping_ it.

“No?” Izzy moves ahead, stopping dead in front of him and fluttering her eyelashes with a vacant sort of smile. “Ring any bells?”

Face burning, Alec just pushes past Izzy and continues on his way back to the dorms. “I told him I would help him,” he says when Izzy continues to trot along beside him. “And that’s what I’m doing. This is a – ”

“Mutually beneficial agreement,” Izzy finishes. “So I’ve heard. Listen, Alec, I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Magnus at Rosa Lee’s: that’s bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Alec gapes at his sister, unable to come up with anything more. He should have _known_ when she hadn’t given him any grief about the whole arrangement in the first place – Tyler had warned him that she was upset, and he had been stupid enough to have just forgotten about it. “Izzy, please tell me you didn’t.”

Izzy folds her arms, defiant. “Of course I did. What did you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know,” Alec runs his hands through his hair, trying to decide what’s worse: knowing what Isabelle said to Magnus, or living with the untold possibilities. “Mind your own business?”

“You are my business,” Izzy says fiercely. “You might forgive Magnus for what he did, but I sure as hell don’t. And I’m not going to sit back and watch history repeat itself.” She softens her tone, taking a step toward him. “You’re my _brother_ ,” she says quietly. “If I don’t look out for you, then who will?”

Alec knows she’s just trying to help – and it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it. In fact, it’s his appreciation of her loyalty toward him that keeps him from reaching for his wand. “Izzy,” he says, breathing as deeply as possible to try to ward off any residual annoyance. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t think – ”

“I can take care of myself,” he repeats. “But right now I have to go.”

“Fine, go.” Isabelle waves a hand off toward the direction of the Hufflepuff dorms. “Don’t forget that we have plans to Floo Jace tomorrow evening. I’ve reserved the Fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room, so you can meet me up there.”

Alec, distracted by the hordes of students filing out of the Great Hall, just mumbles a quick “yeah, sure.”

“Hey,” Izzy snaps a finger in front of Alec’s face, pulling his attention back toward her. “He said to make sure that you don’t miss it. He’s got some questions that he wants you to answer.”

“Merlin’s beard, Izzy,” Alec spits, rounding on his sister again. “Did you really have to bring Jace into this?”

Izzy holds her ground against his sudden shift in demeanor. “If anyone’s going to be able to talk some sense into you, it’s Jace.”

“He’s in _America_ ,” Alec grits. “He’s got bigger things to worry about than the fact that Magnus is tutoring me.”

Unwilling to concede, Izzy just flashes a smile and lets herself be swept up by the influx of Gryffindors that are heading back up to the tower. “I guess we’ll see tomorrow night.” Before Alec can respond she’s halfway up the spiral staircase, and Quidditch try-outs are five minutes from starting. Unwilling to miss out on Magnus’s turn – even if it means facing the chilly night air – he turns around and starts the familiar path to the Quidditch pitch.

\--

While there’s a crowd of about ten or twelve people waiting at the far end of the pitch, the stands are empty. Alec’s not really surprised – of all the houses, the Slytherins are the least likely to calmly accept someone skulking around their try-outs. Still, he hasn’t put in all these early mornings just to be intimidated into leaving; he came here to see Magnus fly, and that’s what he’s going to do.

He walks past Thomas – who gives him the sort of quick once-over that he’s been accustomed to receiving after years of passing him on and off the field, but says nothing – and takes a seat near the end of the pitch closest to the home goalposts.

He scans the field quickly, seeking out Magnus in the throng of bodies, and finds him huddled in the center of a group of green cloaks, chatting animatedly to his fellow housemates. Any trace of the nervous energy from inside the Great Hall has vanished; he’s in his element, surrounded by people who admire him.

It’s impossible, looking down at him now, desperate for him to succeed and worried that he might fail, for Alec to pretend that he’s not still completely caught up in that magnetism. How could he not be? Alec knows he’s young and he knows he’s inexperienced and Merlin knows he’s been burned, but he also knows that there’s no one else quite like Magnus. His chest aches as Magnus smiles – a quick, reactionary tilt of his lips that’s nothing like his true smile – though he keeps his face impassive, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention.

The sharp blast of a whistle pulls him out of his reverie. His eyes snap toward Thomas – who’s shucked off his Quidditch robes in favour of a low-slung pair of muggle shorts and a black shirt that says “I’m all about the Chase” in emerald green lettering. He winks at Magnus as he approaches and the two exchange a couple of words that are impossible to catch from all the way over in the stands. There’s a bright burst of pain, and Alec looks down to find one of his fingers has caught on a splinter of wood from the stands. He curses and sticks it in his mouth, resenting both Thomas, whose actions are wildly inappropriate for someone in a position of authority, and himself, for being here in the first place. For agreeing to help Magnus, and for getting so damn _invested_. Because even if he can admit to himself that he will always have feelings for Magnus, he also knows that they can never go back to what they were; no matter how much it hurts – or how badly he wishes he could give in – he promised himself that he would never again be second-string to Magnus’s ambitions.

When he glances back at the field, Thomas is on his broom, high above the space where the new Beaters are assembled. Magnus is hanging toward the side of the field, flanked on either side by two Slytherins that Alec doesn’t recognize. One of them, a young girl who’s clutching a Firebolt in her hands with a lazy sort of confidence, looks like she might be trouble. The other guy – a sixth year, Alec thinks – thankfully seems far more interested in catching Thomas’s eye than actually playing Quidditch. Questionable taste aside, Alec is happy to get rid of half the competition.

Magnus doesn’t pay much attention to the activity above, and so neither does Alec. He spends most of his time with a notebook unfolded on his lap, pretending to read through notes while he surreptitiously watches Magnus out of the corner of his eye. He passes about an hour that way, looking upward only when there’s a particularly exuberant reaction from the crowd, wishing with every passing second that he could provide Magnus with some sort of comfort and trying not to let his mind wander to the last time they’d shared each other’s company on this field.

\--

**October 22nd, 2016: First Quidditch match of 6th Year**

Alec spends most of his first Quidditch game of the year supremely bored. They’ve just found a new Beater – an overly enthusiastic fourth year named Miranda – and she’s been chasing down every Bludger like it’s caused her some sort of personal offence. Alec’s had the opportunity to take like two – perfectly aimed – hits, but other than that there’s been nothing but a lot of flying and dodging Miranda’s exuberant bursts of speed.

It’s just as well, because the game is a bit of a wash. It’s not Ravenclaw’s fault – though they did lose a considerable chunk of their roster with last year’s graduation – it’s just that the Hufflepuff team is stacked. Even without Tyler – who’s set to be a first-round pick by the B&I League straight out of Hogwarts – they’ve got an incredibly talented lineup. They’re a shoe-in for Quidditch cup, and Alec doesn’t mind if Miranda uses the first game to get in some experience. He watches her whack a well-aimed Bludger in the direction of Ravenclaw’s Seeker, nearly throwing him off his broom, and gives her an encouraging smile. Not twenty seconds later there’s an eruption of sound from below, and Alec glances toward the posts to see that Tyler has scored his ninth goal of the game. He does a celebratory lap on his way toward the far end, where the Bludgers are currently trying to knock the Ravenclaw Keeper off her broom, and the sun glinting off a familiar set of rings catches his eye.

He does a double take, but even as he blinks the sun out of his eyes, the image in front of him stays the same: Magnus, albeit a more subdued version than usual, with a plain pair of robes and almost no makeup on his face, staring straight up at him. He suppresses the urge to smile as he lets his gaze linger for just an instant too long. He’s about to tear his eyes away when a sudden intake of breath from the crowd alerts him to the oncoming danger of a Bludger that’s escaped Miranda’s grasp. He tucks into a perfect sloth grip roll, avoiding any injurious contact, and then flips up to give the Bludger a solid smack back in the direction of the Ravenclaw Chasers. The crowd cheers its pleasure once again, and Alec speeds off, intent now, with the proper motivation, on making this game a little more interesting.

~

The score, in the end, is an embarrassing 460-20 for Hufflepuff. Alec, flushed with victory and full of post-game adrenaline, looks toward the stands, to where the crowd of spectators is starting to file back to the castle. He glances past the space where Magnus had been sitting, only to find it disappointingly empty. As he scans the grounds, he catches the flick of a white tail as Magnus’s patronus disappears behind a wooden column. He sticks around for a few moments, stretching out his sore muscles and waiting for the last of the stragglers to leave, and then reassures Tyler that he’ll meet him back in the dorms once he’s had time to unwind.

Shucking his Quidditch robes and gloves, as soon as the grounds are clear he jogs over to the spot where he saw the patronus slink away. It takes a moment of searching, but he finally finds Magnus leaning against one of the support beams, casually inspecting his nails as if this is a perfectly reasonable place for him to be.

“Long time no see,” he says, his lips curling up in a smile. They’d spent the night before in the library, studying at tables across from each other, but finding every excuse they could to skip off to the stacks, skimming for obscure books and kissing around every hidden corner.

“I’m surprised you came.” Alec steps forward by pure impulse, lost to the magic of Magnus’s presence. “I seem to remember a conversation that ended with something like _I’ll never be caught dead on that Quidditch pitch_.”

Magnus slides out of the way, avoiding Alec’s outstretched hand with a grin. “You’re remembering it all wrong. I believe I said _anybody with good sense stays as far away from the Quidditch pitch as possible_.”

“Ahh.” Alec moves back toward the grass. “I guess I should probably get going, then. If you have such strong feelings about the location, I can’t imagine your opinion of people who actually get on their broomsticks and fly around over it.”

Magnus’s patronus, which still hasn’t dissipated, cuts him off at the front. It winds itself through Alec’s legs, flicking its tail up his leg. As soon as he turns back toward Magnus the giant cat disappears, fading into the shadows as quickly as it had come.

“I think,” Magnus says, walking slowly toward Alec. “That my time here today may have changed my views on…certain aspects of the game.” He keeps walking, pushing Alec slowly and steadily toward one of the large supporting beams. When Alec’s back finally knocks against the wood, Magnus reaches out to run a hand over his jaw and around to the back of his head.

“For example,” he continues, winding his fingers in Alec’s windswept hair. “I quite like _this_ effect.”

“Makes sense,” Alec breathes. It always happens like this – he comes into a conversation perfectly coherent, and Magnus turns him into a garbled mess.

Magnus runs his fingers back along Alec’s face, carefully brushing along the bridge of his nose, where Alec knows the skin is pink and windburnt. “And I _adore_ this particular consequence.”

Alec’s breath hitches, and he’s just about to tell Magnus to do something – _anything_ – when he leans in and closes the distance between them. Lost in the warm, wet heat of the kiss, Alec groans audibly, pulling Magnus closer as he does so. Magnus sighs as Alec’s hands wrap around his waist, and the sound is more exhilarating than anything that happened in the preceding game. That tiny loss of composure buoys Alec’s spirit, making him bold, so when Magnus pulls away to catch his breath, Alec laces their hands together. He pulls Magnus toward the pitch, body filled with pleasurable heat and his heart hammering at the casual intimacy of the moment.

“I thought you had an essay to finish up for Charms?” Alec asks as they meander along the grass, heading for his pile of abandoned equipment.

“I’ll finish it tonight.” Magnus smiles, and it’s such a rare sight – that small, unguarded smile – that Alec wants to make it stretch on forever. He pulls Magnus slightly to the left, unlacing their hands only as he reaches his broomstick.

He holds the broomstick out, gesturing toward the sky with a tilt of his head. “Come up with me.”

Magnus takes a step back, holding out his hands as if confronted with an angry Grindylow instead of an inanimate piece of wood. “Uh, how about no?”

Alec lets the broom fall to his side as Magnus continues to give it the kind of look Alec reserves for particularly foul potions instructions. “Do you really think I’d let you fall?”

“I think,” Magnus says primly, taking another step backward, “that regardless of how sweet your talk is, Alexander Lightwood, there is no power on this earth that will get me on one of those things.”

Far less preoccupied with winning than Magnus, Alec just drops the broom to the ground. “We’ll see,” he says with a shrug, holding his hand out so that he can pull Magnus close once again. “Maybe with time my powers of persuasion will grow.”

Magnus laughs softly as he falls into Alec’s chest. “Merlin help me on that day, Alexander,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling the side of Alec’s neck, a stark contrast to the cold night air.

\--

**September 2017: Seventh Year**

Finally, Thomas flies down to the pitch and calls out to Magnus and the other two prospective keepers. Alec watches, his stomach knotted with nerves, as the three of them take to the air.

As he suspected, the sandy-haired guy is far more interested in Thomas than Quidditch; he spends a solid thirty seconds flying back and forth on his broom, not leaving Thomas’s side. When he finally takes position at the net, he fumbles every shot that Thomas throws and he can’t read a single feint. He’s absolute garbage, and Alec couldn’t be happier. In fact, he smiles his way through the entire try-out, happier than he’s ever been that Thomas Werther is a colossal flirt.

But his good mood doesn’t last long. The young girl – who’s only a second year, Alec overhears after casting a quick spell – is _good_. She’s clearly been flying for quite some time, and seems to be a natural in the air. Thomas runs her through a few easy drills – simple passes and a rudimentary fake-out – before escalating to some tougher saves. She makes all but two of them – a tricky cross-post pass that one of the other veteran Chasers sneaks by, and a particularly quick shot from Thomas himself. She looks pleased with her performance as she makes her way to the ground, and Alec can tell from across the field that the rest of the team is duly impressed.

Magnus looks past the round of congratulations, focusing only on the task ahead of him. He’d always been like that with exams; even for small quizzes, his focus had been absolute. While Alec had sweated and worried his way through his OWLS in fifth year, Magnus had been as cool and immovable as the statues adorning the castle. It’s hard, even with everything that’s passed between them, for Alec to be unaffected by his grace under pressure.

Magnus mounts his broom – Tyler’s Firebolt, which he’s been using to practice – and takes to the sky. With the added pressure, he flies even better than he has in practice; no one would ever know how intense his fear of flying had been until a few short months ago. Alec remembers clearly the first time he saw Magnus in a practical exam – Charms, when they were paired up in their fourth year – and how _well_ he did. Unlike most, Magnus’s abilities seem to amplify with added pressure, the stress bringing out the very best in him.

He handles the pressure much better than Alec, who spends the entire ten minutes with his hands over his eyes. He cringes with every shot, and nearly whoops with pleasure when Magnus makes a particularly good save. For the final shot Thomas comes up above his two other chasers, who pass the Quaffle at the last moment, in an attempt to sneak it in through the top – and often undefended – section of the tallest hoop. Alec, who ran this exact scenario with Magnus countless times over the past few mornings, actually drops his books to the ground when Magnus pulls off a spectacular save. There’s a resounding roar of applause as Magnus flips the Quaffle over his shoulder, and Thomas gestures for him to follow him to the ground.

Thomas and Magnus have another whispered exchange, which Alec watches with the acid-burn of jealousy creeping from his gut up his throat. He gathers up the papers that he threw on the ground and starts placing them back in his bag. He takes his time, and by the time he’s ready to head back to the castle, the Slytherin team has cleared out. Magnus is the only figure left on the field, and he’s standing back on, watching as his housemates trek back to the castle.

Alec approaches slowly. The try-out went well – better than he’d even hoped for – but Magnus can often be his own worst critic.

“Hey,” Alec says as he approaches, coming to a stop just behind Magnus.

“Hey.” As he speaks the word, Magnus’s demeanor shifts. His muscles, up until now rigid and straight, seem to deflate. His head falls forward, and he stumbles a little. Alec – caving to the same self-destructive impulse that overtook him on the day of the potions debacle – reaches out to steady him.

Magnus’s entire body, once Alec has lowered him to the ground, begins to shake. Everything – right down to his teeth – is in rigors, moving so swiftly that Alec thinks for a moment that it must be some sort of curse. Even his voice, when he finally speaks up, is wobbly.

“Thanks for all your help,” he forces out. “I guess we’ll see if it made a difference.”

“Of course it did!” Alec shifts a little closer; the breeze has developed a bit of a chill since they stepped out on the field, and Magnus’s Quidditch robes are nearly soaked through with sweat. “Thomas is mad if he doesn’t pick you for the team.”

“I don’t know.” Magnus plucks at a few blades of grass, curling and unfurling his fingers in a strangely hypnotic pattern. “He thinks I’m stretched too thin – and you have to admit that Maureen has got talent. They could really build her into an amazing player.”

“She’s what, a second year?” Alec asks. Magnus answers with a short nod. “She’ll still be here next year. Plus, with youth comes inexperience. You’re a rock under pressure, and your whole house knows it. They’d be idiots not to want you on the team.”

Magnus shudders, and then looks up, meeting Alec’s eyes for the first time since the try-outs began. “Thanks, Alexander.”

Alec swallows audibly, trying to force out the words that he knows should come. Magnus knows better than to call him that – it’s too much, too painful. But what he _should_ do and what he wants to do are light years apart.

So, throwing his good sense into the wind, he puts an arm out and pulls Magnus closer. It’s a testament to the complete washout that he’s experiencing that Magnus allows the intrusion. In fact, he melts into Alec’s touch, resting his head on Alec’s shoulder as if they’ve gone back in time a year. The shivering gradually lessens, and after a span of ten, maybe twenty, minutes stops altogether.

It’s fully dark now, and with the cool air comes the added perk of a completely clear sky. It’s the kind of night that sends Centaurs into hysterics, and even Alec, with his limited skill or interest, can spot a couple of constellations above their heads. It’s the kind of night that he would have lived for last year – the kind of night that almost invites moonlit walks and stolen moments by the lake. But even now, with a vastly different perspective, he cannot deny the quiet beauty surrounding them.

Magnus follows his eyes straight upward. As always, it’s impossible to gauge what he’s thinking, though Alec is almost certain that he moves a little closer.

Alec doesn’t know what prompts him to open his mouth – Magnus’s proximity, the unlikely circumstances that led to this moment, the terrifying realization that they’re such a small, improbable part of a vast universe – but the words are out before he even has a chance to think them through. “Does it ever make you feel like your problems are a little less significant?”

Magnus’s voice is heavy, but resolute. “No,” he says, “it doesn’t.” With that he shifts, pulling his body away from Alec’s completely. The loss of warmth is a shock, compounded by the cool rush of wind that takes Magnus’s place.

Magnus voice, when he speaks again, is brittle. “We should head back to the castle.” He clambers up without any help from Alec, and then, without as much as a backward glance, he makes his way forward alone.

With a bone-deep and steadily increasing weariness, Alec slowly rises and follows him up the slope. He walks quietly, not wanting to be the one to punctuate the heavy silence, parting ways when they reach the entrance with nothing more than a whispered goodbye.

As he watches Magnus disappear, Alec’s chest aches with a profound sadness – not just for himself this time, ironically, but also for the boy who broke both their hearts. It comes upon him swiftly, clawing at his chest as he makes the long trek back to his room, and doesn’t settle with the warm tea that awaits him in the kitchens – a welcome gift from the House Elves. It lingers, winding its way through his thoughts, settling in as he catches a few hours of fitful sleep. It remains, permeating his dreams, and he wakes feeling even less rested than when he first lay down to close his eyes.

~

It’s been three days, and the results of the try-outs still haven’t been announced. Alec had stopped by the Slytherin table at lunch, but other than watching Magnus’s quills scratch out notes for _four_ separate classes, he doesn’t learn anything useful. He almost feels like going to harass Thomas himself – probably would, if he could stand to be around the guy.

“Feeling a little jealous are we?” Izzy grins as Alec splutters through a series of harshly worded suggestions about Thomas's character.

She laughs as Alec rushes to defend himself.

“Don’t be too offended – he's always reminded me of you, a little. Same hair, same eyes. Even Jace agrees that he looks a lot like you,” she adds, nothing short of gleeful when Alec gapes at her. “Still, I guess that's where the similarities end - after all, he doesn't grunt like a troll at everyone who tries to engage him in conversation." Her eyes flick down a hallway, to where Thomas is tucking a stray piece of hair behind the sandy-haired Slytherin’s ear. “And he's definitely more bold.”

“If bold is what you want to call it,” Alec mutters darkly, thinking that Thomas would be better served making important team decisions rather than trying to seduce every guy at Hogwarts who looks at him twice. As she bursts into satisfied laughter, Alec regrets ever walking to class with Izzy; not only does it always make him late, it seems like she considers her day a total waste if she doesn’t find some way to annoy him.

“I don't care about Thomas's sex appeal – perceived or otherwise,” Alec huffs, glaring after the Slytherin captain as he disappears from sight. “I just want to know those results.”

Izzy hesitates, and Alec can tell that she’s weighing her words carefully. After his - admittedly extreme - reaction during the Floo conversation with Jace, he knows that she doesn’t want to set him off again. “I just hope you’re being – ”

“Careful,” he finishes with a sigh. “I know.”

He waves as she branches off to head toward Divination, and he continues down the hall, speeding up a little now so that he won’t be late for Potions. He sprints through the hall, nearly taking out a gaggle of first-years, yelling his apologizes behind him as he has no time to stop.

He rushes into the classroom to find nearly everyone else present. His cauldron and ingredients have already been taken out, he realizes, and he finds a lab-partner waiting to greet him.

“Tyler,” he says with some trepidation. They’ve only had a single practice since their altercation in Common Room, and they have barely spoken then. They also haven’t been lab partners since he and Magnus broke up. “I guess we’re working together today?”

“If you don’t mind.” Tyler’s smile is soft and open, and Alec figures that if he can agree to a year of helping Magnus, he can get through a few hours of Potions a week with Tyler. He’d avoided him for so long, afraid of the memories that his presence would dredge up, but that seems irrelevant now that he talks to Magnus on almost a daily basis.

“All right,” Penhallow says, narrowing his eyes at Alec in reprobation. “Now that we’re all here, we can finally get started.” He waves his wand at the chalkboard in front of them, and the instructions for Veritaserum curl across the black surface in a narrow, yet elegant script. Another wave of his wand and a large timer appears above the board.

“The brewing of Veritaserum is very precise,” he says, narrowing his eyes at Alec as if he can already sense his impending failure. “So you need to pay careful attention to each of the instructions. This is testable material for your NEWT, and likely the only time you’ll get to brew it from start to finish. The bulk of your work will be done over two classes, but you’ll also need someone checking in over the month, to make sure that it’s fully potent. Now, let’s stop wasting time. Get to it!”

There’s a flurry of movement as the class scrambles to gather the first of their ingredients. The hiss of steam from hot cauldrons echoes through the dark classroom, and a mixture of pungent odours quickly infiltrates the stale air. Buoyed by the fact that he’s already attempted the potion, has had several bad habits corrected by Magnus, and has read the entire chapter in _Advanced Potion Making_ , Alec sets about preparing the ingredients.

“Here,” he says, sliding one portion of the Jobberknoll feathers across the table to Tyler. “You need to pluck them against the grain,” he says, demonstrating on the pale blue feather in front of him. “Gently now,” he adds, as Tyler rips a little too hard and the fuzzy ends of the feather fray at the edges.

There’s an amicable sort of silence as they work, with Alec pausing every couple of minutes to glance at Tyler’s work to make sure that he’s not having any trouble. He watches as Tyler squints up at the board, and then wants to kick himself for being such an idiot.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, nearly blowing his pile of perfectly shredded feathers to the ground. “I can give you a rundown of the instructions if you want.”

“Actually,” Tyler says, and the bridge of his nose flushes to a pale pink colour. It’s amazing, how it actually makes him look even _better_ – when Alec blushes, it’s bright and splotchy and just generally unpleasant for all parties. “I don’t really need help anymore.”

He reaches up and takes a device – which Alec recognizes from his summer with Magnus as something quite similar to a muggle’s earphone – out of his ear.

“It’s been charmed to transmit the instructions directly into my ear,” he says, looking steadfastly downward. “All I have to do is point my wand at the instructions, say a quick incantation, and it’s done.”

Alec stares at the tiny device, thoroughly impressed. He knows that Josh is talented – had been one of the only students in history to come to Hogwarts early, simply because his magic was too advanced for him to stay at home, untrained – but this is particularly impressive. As with Magnus’s spell to animate the origami Chairman, it’s way beyond the scope of their lessons and nothing short of ingenious.

“We got it cleared with all the professors, so now no one questions when I wave my wand around a bit.” He gives a nervous laugh, still avoiding eye contact. “Plus,” he adds, his voice a little faster now, “I’ve gotten nothing but passing grades since we started with this.”

It takes Alec a minute to respond. Hearing Tyler talk so openly about his struggles – and to find out that something so life-altering has happened to him – is harder than he thought it would be. He remembers finding Tyler in the Common Room as a second year, bent over papers, reading instructions over and over, desperate to understand. He also remembers slowly getting to know him – slowly gaining his trust enough to help him with longer readings. He’d been there through so much of Tyler’s hardship that it seems acutely unfair to have missed out on such a triumph.

“That’s amazing,” he says, pushing away the swell of bitterness and jealousy that threaten to override the sincere happiness he feels. “Brilliant, really.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says, and the pink tinge returns swiftly. “Josh is brilliant.”

Alec waits for the flare of resentment that he felt so often after Magnus broke up with him – that harsh, ugly part of him that begrudged Tyler and Josh’s continual happiness, enduring when he was so miserable – but it doesn’t come. Instead, he hesitantly asks, “so how is Josh?”

As Tyler prattles on about Josh, Alec carefully measures out the next few ingredients. He slices through a couple of roots, careful now to refrain from fraying the ends, as Magnus told him that it would compromise the potion’s integrity. After a few moments of careful preparation, he drops them into the boiling solution that Tyler has started to simmer, making sure to mix each of them in with the proper number of clockwise and counterclockwise motions.

Tyler pauses from his monologue to watch Alec’s careful mixing with open admiration.

“I take it things have been going well with Magnus?”

Alec fumbles his ladle, nearly splashing a bit of the solution over the side of his cauldron. “They’re…going,” he responds. It’s a tricky question to answer – largely because he’s not sure how much of the story Tyler is getting from the other side.

“He hasn’t talked about it,” Tyler says quickly, as though he can read Alec’s mind. “He’s been…unusually subdued lately.”

“He’s focused on NEWTS,” Alec mutters, trying to redouble his concentration. He wants to do well on this assignment, and thoughts of Magnus – good or bad – have never meant good things for his scholastic capabilities. “And the Fairbright, obviously.”

Tyler waits for Alec to stop stirring before he speaks again. “I think we both know those aren’t the only things on his mind.”

He holds up his hands, cutting Alec off before he can argue. “Look,” he says softly. “I want what’s best for both of you, so I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him, and that’s to be careful.”

“You’d think that we were preparing for some kind of war,” Alec mutters, “what with all the warnings I’ve been getting over the past two weeks.” He turns back to his ingredients, violently separating them into two piles. “And I’m not really sure what Magnus has to be careful about.”

This time, Tyler reaches out and gently removes the ladle from Alec’s hand. He picks up the small vial of ground ingredients and pours them into the potion carefully, stirring at the appropriate intervals. Once that step is finished, and they have a five-minute break before they can begin the next, he meets Alec’s eyes once again. “It’s not my place to get in the middle of this, Alec, but you have to know that you’re not the only one who was hurt last Christmas.”

Alec snorts – a high, harsh sound that burns at the back of his throat. “Magnus made it perfectly clear that I was low on a long list of priorities. Excuse me if I’m not overwhelmed with sympathy.”

“Magnus is smart – ” Tyler hesitates for a second, his hand hovering over the cauldron in a half-assed attempt to do something productive “ – but that doesn’t mean he’s always right.” He settles down in his chair, leaning against the cool stone of their workstation. “It doesn’t mean that he always does what’s best.”

Alec mirrors Tyler’s movements, falling heavily into the chair next to him. “Doesn’t much matter at this point,” he says softly. “Right or wrong, what’s done is done.” He looks up to find the potion emitting the exact pale smoke that the textbook has illustrated; at least in this, Magnus has come through for him. He passes a handful of moonseed and a pair of thick dragon-hide gloves over to Tyler. “Let’s just try to focus on the things that still matter.”

Tyler nods, pulling on his gloves, and proceeds to follow Alec’s lead for the remainder of the lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that the dates have changed. The whole taking-place-in-2016 thing was really annoying me, so I went back and edited it all the way through. 
> 
> I hope that you liked this chapter. Updates will be a little more spaced out (going to aim for once per week) because I have a pretty big oral exam coming up in a month's time. 
> 
> As always, I love to hear your thoughts, so please let me know what (if anything) you're enjoying. I also tend to post some stuff on tumblr as I write, and will probably do that more often as time between updates lengthens a bit. 
> 
> My tumblr is: misadventurousmongooses come hang :)
> 
> you are all the best *hugs*


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shadowhunters is back and so am I. w00p.

One would think that growing up in an orphanage with no television, very few books, and ten times the number of children as toys would have taught Magnus something about managing his impatience. Waiting for things – the bathroom; the telephone; the nauseating, plastic-wrapped meals – was a way of life at St. Anne’s Home for Orphaned Children, and that kind of environment inevitably fashioned starving children into two types of adolescents: the meek and obeisant or the perpetually active. 

Magnus has always been the second type. 

Whenever people ask him how he manages to fit so much into his day, he’s genuinely perplexed. As someone who lived with an excess of free time in his formative years, busyness is the closest thing he knows to happiness. 

Unfortunately, not everyone believes in a philosophy of prompt accomplishment of goals. In fact, some people seem to thrive on the languid chaos of procrastination. 

People like Thomas Werther, for example. 

It’s been five days – another school week come and gone – and he still hasn’t posted _anything_ about Quidditch results. At first, it was easy enough; Magnus had loads of schoolwork to catch up on, and writing and revising essays took the better part of two nights. Then there was a meeting with the Prefects that he was expected to lead, a discussion with the Headmaster about Halloween decorations, and a new round of essays to grade for Penhallow. But now, as his busy week bleeds into a relatively uneventful weekend, Magnus is antsy. And while antsy can mean productivity for some, it is not a good look on Magnus. Head Boy or not, antsy is a recipe for trouble. 

Trying to avoid something drastic – though he’d argued with Josh the night before that sending a covert curse at the person you hoped would soon be your Quidditch captain wasn’t as abhorrent as he’d seemed to think – Magnus leaves the comfort of the dungeons and the notes he so desperately needs to finish in favour of tracking Thomas down. 

It takes longer than expected – though Magnus isn’t really sure _what_ he was expecting. After sharing a house – and a night that he doesn’t like to think about, as it reminds him painfully of his lowest point – with Thomas, he knows that eight o’clock on a Friday isn’t a reasonable hour to expect to find him tucking himself into his four-poster. It takes him a bit of time to ask around, but his search eventually leads him to the Gryffindor common room. 

Magnus walks toward Gryffindor tower with significant apprehension. To say that he’s scared would be an overstatement, but he’s spent enough time with Isabelle Lightwood to know that he’s really just courting trouble by going anywhere near her house. He spends an hour hanging outside the door, tense and hypervigilant, before he finds someone – a petrified first year, who stutters out the password on instinct at the sight of his Head Boy – to let him in the common room. 

A quick scan reveals no sign of Izzy – thank Merlin, because Magnus likes all his parts arranged exactly the way they are in the present moment – but his gaze quickly lands on the person he came here to find. 

He strides quickly across the barren collection of sofas – the Gryffindors are likely out courting trouble that Magnus will have to deal with later in the evening – only coming to a halt when he’s looming over the subject of his irritated thoughts. 

“Thomas,” he says, trying to force politeness. It’s not his most successful attempt to date.

Thomas, who is stretched out in some guy’s lap, his eyes shut while the dude runs his fingers through his shaggy black hair, doesn’t acknowledge Magnus’s presence. In fact, it takes him nearly ten seconds to even open his eyes. When he does, his lips unfurl into a small smirk that has Magnus itching for his wand. 

“Bane,” he says, before turning and stretching bodily, much like a cat. He rubs his head into the abdomen of the guy on the sofa – a sixth year, like Thomas, who looks vaguely familiar – who nearly shoves him onto the floor with a huff of annoyance. 

“Oi,” Thomas says, just managing to catch himself before toppling over. “Take it easy, Princess.” 

There’s another eye-roll from the Thomas’s blonde friend, and at any other time Magnus would probably feel amused at the exchange – flapping the unflappable is a bit of a hobby of his, and he’s never been able to get under Thomas’s skin – but right now he’s internally weighing the pros and cons of hauling out his wand and making Thomas speak. 

The cons come out on top, and Magnus forces his irritation into something malleable, into the types of words he can fling without any sort of wand accompaniment. 

“Small wonder it’s been hard for you to make any kind of decision,” he says testily, cutting his eyes at Thomas as he struggles to get upright. “I know this is how you like to spend your copious amounts of free time, Werther, but it would be _ever so lovely_ if you could keep it in your pants for the thirty seconds it would require to tell your Quidditch team about your selections.” 

Much to Magnus’s surprise, Thomas just barks a laugh as the blonde beside him scowls. “Me and this one?” Thomas jabs at his friend, who dodges the blow easily. “Sadly not. Much to my everlasting sorrow, James’s tastes tend to run a little closer to your own. Tall, broody, and outrageously rich is how he seems to like them.” 

“Thomas, shut it.” The words, hissed out between gritted teeth, do actually manage to shut Thomas up for a second. 

Magnus is too busy trying to manage his fury to even process the nonsense coming out of Thomas’s mouth. It takes a full twenty seconds for his brain to catch up. 

_Alec. They’re talking about Alec._

Distracted now, Magnus turns the full force of his scrutiny to Thomas’s friend. James, he’d said. There’s only one James in Gryffindor House, as far as he knows: James Grayson, Marina Grayson’s only child and heir to one of the vastest fortunes in the United Kingdom. He’s handsome, Magnus notes as he looks a little closer – soft, blonde hair that curls around his face; broad shoulders that strain at the edges of his robes, tapering down into sharp-edged biceps and the kind of forearms that send a guy’s mind instantly wandering; and deep blue eyes that seem better suited to the sunny coasts of France than the grey, drizzled hills that surround Hogwarts. He’s not a prefect, but Magnus bets he wouldn’t have to do much digging to find that he’s near the top of his class. A perfect political connection, he’d be an excellent match for a _Lightwood_ ; he’s the kind of person that Alec’s family might actually come around to accepting.

Pushing down an unexpected – and distinctly unwanted – wave of resentment, Magnus forces himself to look away from James Grayson and his perfect mop of blonde hair and refocus on Thomas. 

“Best of luck to him,” Magnus finally says, his words light and airy enough to soar from this tower if they so desired. “I’ll get him a goddam date myself if you can just give me what I came for.” 

“That,” Thomas says with a wry twist of his lips, “is absolute shit, isn’t it?” He tilts his head, and Magnus has the overwhelming urge to reach out and shove him – something he hasn’t done since he was a lonely child, scrappy and desperate and unwilling to back down. “But I suppose it’s always business with you, isn’t it?” Another slow smile, and Magnus can stop his hand from twitching. “Well – almost always.” 

Thomas’s expression shifts into something purposefully sensual, and it does the trick: one quirk of a dark eyebrow and Magnus is reliving one of his most shameful memories. 

He’s sure Thomas remembers things a little differently, but Magnus has never been in the business of sharing his true feelings. Unwilling to engage, he just crosses his arms and waits for Thomas to move on. 

“Oh, fine.” Thomas flings himself backward, evidently thinking that James is going to break his fall; instead, his head thunks against the headrest. “You’re on the team,” he gasps out, rubbing the back of his head and looking for all the world like a wounded animal. 

Magnus is careful to give nothing away – not the sickening swoop of relief at another accomplishment nor the instant burst of anxiety that follows closely behind. Now that he can accept the reality of it happening, he has no idea how he’s supposed to fit _Quidditch_ into his already-packed schedule. He remembers how much of Alec’s time it had taken, and Alec wasn’t a new recruit who needed extra guidance. 

“It’s provisional,” Thomas adds, looking up at Magnus from under his flop of black hair. “Don’t think that you can just skive off. This team is my priority, and I expect it to be yours.” 

Though he’s just finished thinking about his host of responsibilities, the admonishment has him immediately defensive. “I find it laughable that you can even say the word priority with a straight face.” 

To his surprise it’s James, not Thomas, who answers. With his lips pulled back into a snarl that looks improbably – and unfairly – attractive, he hisses, “Who even let you in here?” He scans the room for a possible culprit, and seeing none, turns his icy gaze back to Magnus. “Not that it matters. I trust that you can find your own way out.” 

Though clearly a dismissal – and spoken with the crisp, clipped tone that Magnus associates with the upper echelons of Magical Society – Magnus recognizes James’s vitriol for what it truly is: a defense. He recognizes it, because he’s felt it himself countless times on Josh’s behalf. His initial assessment was obviously wrong: these two have the kind of friendship he would have never suspected of Thomas Werther. It’s almost a little unsettling, to think of him as a human, with feelings and friends. 

He turns and pushes against the portrait of the Fat Lady silently, the lack of response as close to an apology as he’s willing to give. As the heavy portrait gives way, he hears a quiet, Aww, Princess, you came to my rescue and the distinct thud of Thomas getting whapped with a pillow. He leaves Gryffindor tower with a smile on his face, even as his mind kicks into overdrive, desperate to find a place in his ever-dwindling free time to schedule Quidditch practice. 

\--

Quidditch, it turns out, takes up even more of his schedule than Magnus was expecting. With so many new players on the line, Thomas is nearly-manic when it comes to running practice, and he refuses to cut back to less than three practices a week. He seems to think that since he can’t spell experience into Magnus, he can at least beat competency into him. Magnus goes home with a bludger-induced broken nose on two separate occasions, and it’s only Josh’s handy spellwork that ensures his face doesn’t suffer any permanent alterations. 

Between the grueling schedule, his Head Boy duties, a single shift at Rosa Lee’s, tutoring Alec, recovering from the nights he tutors Alec, and studying himself, he has less than an hour of time per week that he’s not accountable to someone or something. It’s only after he falls asleep halfway through a conversation with Josh that he starts to worry that he’s taken on too much. 

He wakes with a jolt, as his chin snaps down toward his chest, and is greeted with Josh’s green eyes boring into him, wide and full of concern. 

“Magnus,” he says, fiddling with his quill and refusing to hold Magnus’s gaze. His tone is caught somewhere between a plea and a reprimand. “I don’t think I need to tell you this, but I will anyway: you can’t go on like this. Living like this isn’t healthy.” 

Tyler, who’s currently bent over a potions essay, his nose so close to the parchment that Magnus is sure that when he rises there will be ink smeared into his skin, takes a break just so that he can nod soberly in agreement. There _is_ a splotch on his nose, which, to Magnus’s supreme displeasure, looks nothing short of charming. He sees Josh quirk a smile from the corner of his eye, and Tyler’s face instantly floods with color. 

It would be nauseating, Tyler’s easy and obvious love, if it was directed at anyone but Magnus’s best friend. As it stands, it’s still supremely irritating whenever it means that he’s getting ganged up on. 

“And what,” Magnus snaps, exhaustion twisting his words, “do you think I can do about that?” 

“It’s time for you to let something go.” Josh’s voice is hesitant – this is an argument he’s lost before – but he doesn’t back down. “You’ve _got_ to let something go.” 

“Easy enough for you to say.” His words cut through the space between them, sharp and hostile, and Josh recoils as if he’s been struck. Fatigue pulls and tugs at the best parts of Magnus, stretching any goodwill he has until it’s so thin that he wonders if it even truly exists anymore. “For both of you,” he tacks on before Tyler can speak. 

The anger, once he lets it surface, is so much easier to feel than everything else. It buoys him, filling up the cracks that exhaustion has split open, and gives him something to focus on other than the ever-mounting sense of despair. Of impending _failure_. 

“You don’t have to lie awake wondering how long you can keep wearing the same pair of shoes before they fall apart,” he says to Josh, not caring how unfair the statement is. Not caring that he knows – he fucking knows ¬that every dollar from the Fells comes drenched in expectation. That Josh’s privilege comes with a steep price. It’s just so hard to summon the appropriate sympathy. It’s so hard to feel bad when no one else at this school has to carry this burden. Even Tyler, whose entire family had to scrape together money for the better part of half a year to buy him a top of the line broom, doesn’t have to worry like he does. His family may be poor, but he has a _family_. He has parents who have to worry about how to feed him and clothe him and make sure that he has enough quills to do his damned homework. He gets to just _exist_ , poor but fucking happy. 

It’s all infuriating. 

“I know we don’t,” Tyler says, taking over when he notices his boyfriend’s hitching breath and glassy eyes. His utterly reasonable tone just fuels Magnus’s anger. “But even so, something has got to give. Despite what you think, you can’t do everything.” 

The words come unbidden, fueled by uncontrollable anger. The worst part, is that even though Magnus knows what’s coming, he does nothing to hold them in; a not inconsiderable part of him wants them to hurt. 

“That’s rich,” he hisses, the words confirming everything he’s ever known about his true nature, “coming from someone who’s walking into a career as a professional athlete. You’ve got a signing bonus with your name on it already drafted. Does anyone even care if you graduate?” 

Still, Magnus knows that he’s gone a step too far as soon as the words permeate the air. As soon as he watches Tyler recoil, dumbstruck. He scrambles, wishing that there was something – an apology, a gesture, fuck even a spell – that could erase what he’s said. 

As Tyler shrinks into himself, Josh draws up. It’s as if all the fury that has been sucked out of Magnus has been siphoned into his best friend, and Magnus dreads what’s to come. He can’t remember ever fighting with Josh, not really, and he’s completely unprepared for whatever’s about to be unleashed. He panics – a true, blinding panic that he’s only felt on one other occasion – but before Josh can open his mouth, Tyler touches his arm. 

“Don’t,” he says softly. “I don’t want you to say something you can’t take back.” He smiles – a small, private smile which forces Magnus’s glance away from his friends – and squeezes Josh’s biceps. “Not for me.” 

Josh nods and his tears begin to flow in earnest. Without turning to look at him he whispers, “Magnus, I think you should go.” 

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Tyler adds, and then turns back to the schoolwork that’s been meticulously laid out in front of him. 

Ashamed and dismissed, Magnus hastily shoves his books back into his bag. There’s an apology waiting to be spilled – begging forgiveness is something he would readily do at this point – but he can’t get past the flash of fury he’d seen in Josh’s eyes. 

Through everything, Josh has been the one person he could count on. The one person he’s always known loves him without question. He honestly doesn’t know how people get through life without a best friend, and now he’s afraid that his might never look at him the same. 

The fear of this possibility is too great for Magnus’s already tired mind. He stumbles out of Ravenclaw tower and down the staircase with numb limbs, barely registering passersby. He’s dazed, barely awake, and propelled to keep moving until the crushing weight of his guilt settles, and doesn’t realize in which direction he’s been walking until he nearly collides with the one person he should be trying hardest to avoid. 

Though he has to skid to a stop to avoid crashing into Alec altogether, it takes Magnus a beat to register his face. The seconds stretch from an awkward but forgivable silence into an obvious pause. Alec’s face – which has always been too open for his own good – shifts from embarrassed to annoyed to concerned in a matter of seconds. 

“Magnus?” He breaks the silence tentatively, murmuring Magnus’s name in a tone usually reserved for Care of Magical Creatures. Like Magnus is something that needs to be soothed, something wild and untamed. 

When Magnus doesn’t answer, he steps a little closer. “Is - is everything okay?” 

It’s the genuine concern that does him in. He can handle an Alec that’s prickly – after all, it’s no less than he deserves. He can handle moody and snippy and – with some difficulty – even politely aloof. But this Alec, the Alec that makes him ache for everything he’s given up? It’s too much, especially when he’s one kind word away from a breakdown he neither wants nor can afford.

He jerks his head into an approximation of a nod, his teeth clamped so tightly that he’s sure his jaw while ache in the morning. He crosses arms as if the gesture alone can stop his heaving chest from splitting. 

“I’m just going to the kitchens.” Alec looks at the ground for a moment before continuing. “I can ask Rosie to make you some hot chocolate.” 

Even if Magnus didn’t think the house elf would try to poison him – he’d nearly bitten into a live earthworm in his plate of Christmas pudding last year, and he’s got a pretty good idea of who was responsible – he can’t imagine walking into the kitchens with Alec. Not ever again, really, but especially in this moment. 

Well, he _can_ imagine it, and that’s really the problem. He can imagine Alec speaking softly with the elves, genuinely complimenting their work and hesitantly asking if he can help, as if it isn’t almost an expectation at this point. He can picture the apron, worn and stained, that they keep tucked away just for him. He can see the entire gut-wrenching scene playing out, from Alec insisting on making the hot chocolate himself right up to the stupid, bashful smile that he’ll have as Magnus drinks. It’s bad enough, the contact that they have now, but it’s harder to imagine going back to this. Back to the place where he’d truly fallen in love with Alec Lightwood. 

“I’ve got a meeting,” Magnus says. 

It’s not a good lie by any stretch of the imagination, but Alec lets it go with a short dip of his head. Magnus clamps down on his disappointment, forcing it away instantly. The air thrums with the weight of everything they’re refusing to say – and everything they wish they could. 

Biting his lip to keep it from quivering, Magnus quickly clears his throat. “Sorry for,” he starts, but then isn’t really sure how to finish. He has so many things to be sorry for, most of them far more extreme than nearly bumping into Alec in the hall. “Sorry.” 

He turns on his heel before Alec can reply and is out of sight in an instant, outrunning memories he doesn’t feel that he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shining some focus on Magnus. Sorry for the long wait - life got very intense, but I've finally settled into a gentler routine. I hope those of you who are still around enjoyed this one. The next chapter will be all Magnus & Alec and will include a lengthy flashback.


	7. Chapter Seven

**October 23rd, 2017: Seventh Year**

The stress of classes starts to die down a little by the end of October. The beginning-of-term panic has settled and most of the seventh years have been able to organize their ever-mounting homework assignments into something manageable. Alec’s averaging between an ‘Acceptable’ and an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in potions, making him believe that his goals are attainable for the first time since he’d stepped into Penhallow’s Potion classroom as a first year. It’s going well enough that he’d felt comfortable sending an owl to his parents, to update them of his progress.

He hasn’t received an answer, but there’s nothing unusual in that.

Alec actually feels optimistic when he gets out of bed on the first Monday of the official Quidditch season. They’ve got the second match of the year – against Ravenclaw – and practices have been running perfectly. It’s sunny and clear, which means that he’ll be able to run down to the pitch after dinner for a quick workout. It’s the setup for the perfect week, and Alec’s debating whether to head toward Gryffindor tower to get Izzy when he notices the transformation the castle has undergone overnight.

There are pumpkins _everywhere_. And not only pumpkins, but also cobwebs and bats and an enchanted breeze that tickles at the back of his neck like the brush of a ghost’s finger.

The pumpkins alone would have been enough to foul his mood; all of them, like this, is enough ensure that there’s no salvaging his day. He forgoes meeting up with Izzy or making his way to the Great Hall. Instead, he stops hastily by the kitchens and takes a scone and a hot chocolate out to the grounds. Rosie meets him by the door personally, and gives him a pat on the hand as he accepts the gifts.

“They’ll be gone in a week, Master Lightwood,” she squeaks, looking up at him with luminous eyes. Her moods change with the day – usually depending on how well the kitchen is running – but he almost wishes that her curmudgeonly side were out this morning; her obvious pity is almost too much on top of the morning’s discovery.

“Can’t happen fast enough, Rosie,” he says, pulling a face before stepping out of the warmth of the kitchens and into the festive hallways.

Merlin, how he hates Hallowe’en.

 

\--

 

**October 28th, 2016: Sixth Year**

Alec groans, trying and failing to retrieve his watch from within the folds of his robes for the third time in as many minutes.

“Magnus,” he pants, the word cut off as the person-in-question runs his lips along Alec’s throat. “I’m going to be late for practice.”

“I’ve been told that there’s such a thing as too much practice,” Magnus counters, scraping his teeth along Alec’s skin purposefully, refusing to make eye contact.

Alec snorts, doing his best to suppress a shiver – better not to give Magnus more proof of exactly how good he is at this. “I don’t really think you can compare my weekly Quidditch practices to your insane schedule.” He leans up and captures Magnus’s lips in a kiss, bringing them even closer together. Any response gets lost as the kiss escalates, and Magnus’s hand is just slipping under Alec’s robe as a loud wail echoes through the hall.

They both startle, and Alec’s entire face darkens as Magnus starts to laugh.

“Oooo,” he whispers, settling his hands on Alec’s shoulders. “The castle is alive.”

Alec’s eye roll prompts another brief spurt of laughter. “Come on, Lightwood,” he says, voice turning sultry. “You’re not going to let this ridiculous prejudice against Hallowe’en ruin the mood, are you?”

“It is _not_ ridiculous,” Alec counters, pushing himself away from the wall with his fingertips and ducking under Magnus’s outstretched arms. “What’s ridiculous is that everyone in this castle gets so worked up over such a stupid – ”

“Now, now,” Magnus says, sidling back up to Alec and pressing a finger to his lips. “Let’s not say things we can’t take back.”

When he’s satisfied that Alec’s not going to continue, he pushes himself back against a desk, hoisting himself up by his hands and taking a seat. His robes, just a shade too short when he stands, pull midway up his knee as he settles himself on the ancient wood. Knowing that he’ll hate anyone noticing, Alec pulls his eyes quickly upward. He knows Tyler is going to give him hell for being late, but with the way that Magnus is sitting, legs splayed and robes pulled tight against his chest, it’s impossible to walk away. He moves forward, transfixed. Magnus is so much – the way he looks, the way he holds himself, the way his mind is always one step ahead of anyone around him – Alec counts himself lucky that he can still manage to breathe when they share the same space, let alone focus on things like punctuality.

So when Magnus cocks an eyebrow and asks, “So what exactly is your problem with Hallowe’en?” he;s not surprised when he manages to do nothing more than grunt and then blush in spectacular fashion.

Unfazed and obviously used to this kind of reaction, Magnus continues without preamble. “Were you forced through a god-awful Celestina Warbeck revival concert? Did a ghoul lock you in a closet? Did Jace hex a pumpkin to chase you around Lightwood Manor?”

“No, no, and only because he’s obviously never thought of it,” Alec says with a smile. He pulls a chair out from behind Magnus’s dangling feet and turns it backward; he falls into it, arms braced against the back.

“Sometimes,” he starts, and then flushes again under the weight of Magnus’s sustained attention. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

Magnus slides off the desk and flicks his wand in a series of quick movements. Suddenly, there’s a deep purple armchair directly in front of Alec, vastly more comfortable than anything the abandoned classroom has to offer.

“Showoff, “Alec mutters, not failing to notice Magnus’s pleased grin.

“Come on.” Magnus nudges his shoe, and somehow that small gesture feels more intimate than what they were doing minutes before. That tiny movement makes him feel like there might be something – or at least the possibility of something – more than stolen kisses in abandoned classrooms between them. It gives him the courage he needs to be truthful.

“Do you ever feel like all this is unfair?”

Whatever Magnus was expecting, this answer is clearly not it. He looks genuinely surprised, which is not something Alec has seen often. Still, he takes the question seriously, pausing for only a second before answering, “All this, like Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts,” Alec agrees, digging his teeth into his lip before continuing. His fingers dance along the back of the chair, outlets for the nervous energy that’s bubbling just below his skin. “You know – magic. All of it, really. It’s just – we have such an _advantage_. Muggles have struggled for centuries to find ways around problems that we can fix in an instant. I was raised to think of muggles as – well, my parents would never say _inferior_ , certainly not after the war – but fundamentally different. But then I came here and met Tyler and realized that’s not true. So much of what separates us seems more like luck than anything else. I guess, once I came to Hogwarts things started to change.” He fiddles absently with the hem of his robes, wishing the floor could somehow sense his need to be swallowed whole. “I guess I started to change.”

It feels about twenty degrees too warm in the drafty classroom, and the way Magnus is looking at him – with unguarded, obvious affection – makes Alec lose his thoughts.

“So, Hallowe’en?” Magnus prompts, voice echoing off the bare walls.

“There are nearly twenty-times the number of wizard-led attacks on muggles on Hallowe’en,” Alec mumbles. “Plus,” he adds looking down at his shoes and knowing that he’s patently ridiculous, “it’s just sad to watch them get so caught up in the supernatural, only to miss that it exists right under their noses.”

“Oh, Alexander.”

Before he can even try to meet his eyes, Magnus’s hand hooks under Alec’s jaw, pulling him in for a soft kiss. Heat spreads through Alec’s chest as their lips move together, and despite the fact that he knows Tyler is going to want his head on a pike, it’s the most content he’s felt all night. He’d almost think he was spelled, if he hadn’t had so much experience with being under Magnus’s thrall.

Pulling away is torture, especially when Alec has nothing to focus on but the bright shine of Magnus’s spit-slick lips; it still brings forth a rush of pride, knowing that he did that to _Magnus Bane_.

“I have no interest in changing your mind,” Magnus says once he’s smoothed any rumpled hairs back into place. His grin turns wicked as he rises, offering a hand for Alec to follow. “But I do have a proposition to make this Hallowe’en a little more enjoyable.”

“I have no interest in sneaking into Hogsmede after hours,” Alec says automatically, half-hating himself for the words as they leave his mouth. Despite his automatic reaction, he wonders, just for a second, if he could do it – risk his place on the Quidditch team, break such an obvious rule – all to follow Magnus to some dimly lit club and worry every second that someone is going to recognize them.

He probably would.

“I was thinking a more intimate setting,” Magnus says, and Alec’s heartbeat skyrockets.

As if he can read his mind – and exactly the kinds of thoughts that are presently racing through it – Magnus’s eyes widen a fraction. Barely enough for anyone to notice, but it soothes Alec’s nerves instantly.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the Slytherin Hallowe’en party?”

Alec’s chest constricts for a second time as he gives a slow nod. Everyone has heard of the Slytherin Hallowe’en party. Held in a secret room in the dungeons that can only be accessed by a member of their house, it’s one of Hogwart’s worst-kept secret. Invitations outside of Slytherin are rare – and exclusive. Izzy has been gunning for one for years.

Alec has several questions – the most important of which is what exactly this invitation means for their relationship – but embarrassingly enough, the first one to come out is, “Is it really a muggle-style costume party?”

“What can I say?” Magnus smirks, and snaps his fingers with a flourish. Emerald sparks erupt, creating the outline of two masked men spinning across the room. “Our house has worked hard to make up for its less-than-savory past. Plus,” – and with that he drops a glittery wink in Alec’s direction – “getting dressed up is _fun_.”

Alec can think of very long lists of things that are more fun than parading around in a costume in front of a room of his fellow students, but conversely, can think of very, very few things that sound more fun than parading around a room at Magnus Bane’s side. Being acknowledged, fully and openly, as someone important in his life.

“And what about us?” His voice, when he’s able to force out the words, is barely a whisper.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” Magnus says, and for the first time since they’ve met he sounds hesitant. Unsure. “But I’d love for you to go.” He clears his throat and takes a small step forward. “I’d love for you to go with me.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more,” Alec says, surprised to find that the answer is the absolute truth.

 

**October 28th 2017: Seventh Year:**

 

Tyler’s been skirting around the issue about whether or not to bring up Magnus’s first Quidditch game for days. Between his shifty looks, the dismal performance he’d put up in potions, and the charmed bats that keep flapping from classroom to classroom, Alec has officially given the hell up on this week.

It’s the morning of the game, and Alec’s already in his scarf – he’d gotten up before _dawn_ on multiple occasions to get Magnus on the team, so he was bloody well going to go and see where that effort had gotten him – when Tyler finally stammers out a tentative, “so you’re going then?”

He politely refrains from commenting on Alec’s look of disdain, which Alec feels is fair recompense for the past three days, and makes him much more amenable to having a genuine conversation.

“So,” Tyler says as they step out of the common room, thumbs poking out of the Hufflepuff Quidditch gloves Josh had knit for him the Christmas before, “Josh is coming to the game. He was – I mean, I’m going to...”

Alec suffers, he truly does, and he’s not really sure what he did in a past life to deserve any of it.

“Is it okay if I sit with you guys?” he asks, desperate to put Tyler out of his misery.

“Definitely,” Tyler says, brilliant smile already in place. “Though be warned: he’s made a sign, and I’m sure it won’t be subtle.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Alec says with a laugh, half-picturing the look on Izzy’s face when she realizes he’s sitting with Slytherin’s biggest fans.

\--

 

**October 29th 2016: Sixth Year**

“Alec, I can’t do it.” Tyler, who’s about to walk out of Alec’s room and back to his own, looks like he belongs in on the pages of a muggle magazine. His brown hair looks glossy and wind-rumpled, and the bright green of his football jersey is perfectly pressed. He’s even wearing high socks that perfectly match those of the footballer on the poster in his room.

He’s in field clothes, and he looks amazing. The world is an acutely unfair place sometimes.

“You can do it.” Alec pushes him back on the bed, leveling a glare when he starts to open his mouth again. “You’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for months. Are you really going to mess it up now?”

“I –” Tyler starts, his cheeks flushing pink as Alec stares him down. “I still can’t believe you’re dating Magnus Bane.”

“Shh,” Alec hisses. He knows it’s stupid to feel self-conscious, especially after Magnus _told_ him they were dating, but it still feels too fantastic to believe. He wonders if this is how Tyler had felt when he’d received his Hogwarts acceptance: like the fabric of the world was bending around him. Like he’d been singled out for an amazing gift that he’d done nothing to deserve. “Someone might hear.”

“Oh, I’m sure everyone will hear, soon enough,” Tyler shoots back, his grin turning pointed.

“I can still leave you here,” Alec threatens. “And leave Ragnor to his disappointment.”

Tyler’s cheeks blaze at the mention of Ragnor; he’s been harboring some significant feelings since he watched him single-handedly crack one of the greatest Transfiguration problems of the past century as a fifth year. Minerva McGonagall had come back to Hogwarts herself to present him with an award. It had been all Alec had heard of for weeks.

Tyler’s silent for a few seconds before falling back onto Alec’s bed, grinning up at the marigold fabric that makes up his curtains. “I can’t believe he wants me to be there.” He glances over at Alec, shameless and giddy. “Tell me exactly what he said one more time.”  
With a longsuffering sigh covering his hint of a smile, Alec does.

\--

It’s hard to tell which of the two of them is more nervous as they pick their way down to the dungeons. Tyler has thrown a set of robes on over his costume, and keeps nervously pulling at the neck, throwing Alec into the cool walls of the corridor each time he does so. Alec is trying not to hex him, repeating to himself each time he feels his elbow scrape the wall that if everything goes to shit he’ll need Tyler there for emotional support and a quick exit.

Magnus has given them instructions to meet him in front of the potions classroom; as usual, he has both a key and special permission from Penhallow to use it as he sees fit. It would almost be worth it, Alec thinks, to see Penhallow’s face if he knew that his prized student was sneaking his biggest disappointment beyond its doors to get ready for a costume party.

As they round the final corner of the empty hallway, Alec can hear voices beyond the firmly closed door of the potions room; Magnus has clearly brought Ragnor along with him. He can feel Tyler tense up beside him, and he reaches out to give him a gentle shove.

“He invited you here,” he mutters under his breath, not really surprised when the minor encouragement does nothing to assuage his friend’s nerves. He understands completely: he’s been meeting up with Magnus for months, and he still feels like his chest is going to explode from the generous mix of nerves and anticipation.

Summoning all available courage, he knocks softly on the door.

The door slowly pushes outward, and Alec can see the bright green of Magnus’s eyes before the rest of his face comes into view. His irises, once a lovely, pale green, are now as bright as a cat’s. And much like a cat, his pupil has split, giving him an otherworldly appearance. His face is expertly contoured – a word Alec only knows because of Magnus – and there’s a dusting of glitter along the lid of each eye. As the door falls back he noticed two other things in quick succession – a small, black set of ears that have obviously been spelled into place and a skintight bodysuit that clings to Magnus’s every muscle. It should be ridiculous, but somehow it’s anything but. Magnus looks predatory. He looks terrifying and gorgeous and –

“Wow,” Alec breathes, the word falling from his lips unbidden.

“Thank you,” Magnus says, dropping a glittery wink in Alec’s direction. “I aim to please.” He gestures for both of them to come in, fixing Tyler with an assessing stare as he shuffles past.

He crosses his arms over his chest – a gesture that highlights just how snugly the fabric wraps around his biceps – and Alec tries not to walk into a wall. Then, as Magnus spins around to face them once more, he somehow produces his wand from within the costume – a feat of magic within itself, since there doesn’t seem to be an inch of fabric to spare – and twists it between his fingers. His face is upturned, a play for innocence that doesn’t ring true under the muted glow of the dungeon.

“So, Tyler,” he says slowly, “do we need to have a chat about how you’re going to treat my best friend?”

Alec tries – with limited success – to hide his snort behind a cough as Tyler stammers out a hasty, “of course not.”

Before he can intervene on his friend’s behalf there’s a hiss from across the room, and Ragnor – whose usually blonde hair is a shocking shade of green – stumbles out from behind a desk, his face bright red.

“Magnus,” he spits, the sound surprisingly venomous from such a small body. “Don’t you have something to help Alec with?” he continues through gritted teeth, pointedly avoiding looking in Tyler’s direction. “Right now?”

Magnus smiles at Tyler, and for a second Alec can swear his teeth have sharpened into points. Tyler swallows and then feels his way toward one of the desks, waving belatedly at Alec as Magnus pulls him into the small storage cupboard at the back of the room. The last thing Alec hears as the door swings shut is a frantic sorry from Ragnor that he’s sure will do more damage to Tyler’s heart than anything Magnus could come up with, and it keeps him temporarily distracted.

He’s distracted for long enough, in fact, that when he looks up at Magnus again, he’s holding a costume in his hand.

A costume, he might add, that has distressingly little fabric.

“What,” he chokes out, trying and failing to ignore the gleam of mischief in Magnus’s strange cat eyes, “is that supposed to be?”

“Costumes are mandatory,” Magnus says, dropping the small pile of clothes onto the storage cabinet beside him. “And you already agreed to be my date.”

_Date_. Though he knows it’s stupid, Alec can’t help the way his body responds to that word. Part of him had worried – is worried – that what draws Magnus to him is the secrecy. That maybe, once this is out in the light of day, he’ll realize that Alec is just Alec: quiet and boring and not even close to his league.

“Hey.” Pulled from his thoughts by the touch of Magnus’s hand against his arm, Alec looks up to find Magnus’s face directly in front of his. “If you’ve changed your mind…”

Shaking away the negative thoughts, Alec runs his hands over the tight material of Magnus’s costume. “Are you kidding me?” He moves slowly forward until Magnus’s hips bump against the storage counter. “No one is getting me away from you now.”

He presses forward, kissing Magnus once, twice, three times – just enough for the heat between them to make him forget about the chill of the dungeons – before he’s pushed gently backward.

“Costume time,” Magnus says, thrusting the pile of clothes into his hands. Before Alec can stammer out the question, he conjures a blindfold out of thin air and slips it over his eyes.

“I won’t peek,” he promises, his lip curling up in a grin as Alec hastily starts the process of changing. “Even if it’s incredibly tempting.”

Happy that Magnus can’t see his flush, he strips out of his robes and into the costume as quickly as possible. It’s armor – or at least he’s thinks it’s supposed to be armor – although any warrior dressed like this is asking to take a spear to the thigh. Still he swings the final piece – a blood red cape – across his shoulders, smiling when the rush of air makes Magnus twitch.

“Does that mean you’re finished?”

“Just one more thing,” Alec says. He steps forward as quietly as possible, and presses his lips against Magnus’s in a soft kiss. To hear the quick catching of his breath before he tugs the blindfold down makes standing in the ridiculous costume completely worth it.

“I’m going to second your earlier _wow_ ,” Magnus says. “In fact, I’m going to raise you a _wow_. That costume deserves it.”

“I don’t know,” Alec says, trying his best not to blush under the praise. “It seems a little impractical. I’m concerned about historical accuracy. I can’t see anyone lasting long in this getup.”

“Lasting long?” Magnus gapes, faux-affronted. “Alexander the Great conquered the world in that _getup_ , I’ll have you know.”

“Alexander the – of course you did,” Alec says with a sigh.

“No one has ever accused me of subtlety,” Magnus says with a wink. He raises his wand and taps it against Alec’s head. His hair curls outward around his ears, instantly thick and glossy. “Perfect,” Magnus says with a grin. “Now, why don’t we go rescue our friends from each other and get out of here?”

He extends a hand, and Alec takes it willingly. In that moment, standing in a place he used to hate more than anything, the bright, burning thrum of his happiness erases  any and all reservations he’s ever harbored about his steadily deepening feelings for Magnus Bane.

 

\--

 

**October 28th 2017: Seventh Year**

Magnus is playing well. Alec had thought it would be hard to concentrate – especially next to Josh, who usually can’t stop talking long enough for anyone to collect their thoughts – but both him and Tyler are unusually subdued. He’s not sure if it’s nerves or something more, but he also doesn’t feel it’s his place to ask; any right he head to the dynamics of that friendship fizzled out last Christmas.

The score is 70-50 Gryffindor, and all the goals that have gotten past Magnus have been well executed; Izzy was responsible for over half of them, and Alec knows he didn’t imagine the fierce triumph written on her face when she’d gotten the Quaffle past Magnus’s outstretched arms. He’s been trying to move on from what happened between them, but Izzy’s resentment is almost palpable.

If only Magnus could move _faster_ , Alec thinks, gripping the rail in front of him as Magnus swoops in and tries to stop a particularly tricky shot. He misses by centimeters, and the worst part is that his skill level has _nothing_ to do with it. Technically, he’s proficient. Overall, he’s performing perfectly well – great, even, for someone who’d refused to sit on a broom until their seventh year at Hogwarts – but if he had just a little more speed on his side he could propel himself from great to phenomenal. He could perform at the level he expects from himself – because if Alec knows anything about Magnus it’s that anything less than perfection is an unacceptable concession.

He can see it in the set of his shoulders as he fires the ball off to Werther, and in the furrow of his brow as he redoubles his focus. The pressure is unreal – first game of the season, starting on the line as a mature student, knowing how much of his study time he’s had to give up to be in the game, and that unholy fucking _scholarship_ that looms over everything he does – and though he knows he shouldn’t care, Alec hates to think of Magnus up there, pushing away his fear of flying and fighting with everything he has, only to be a second too slow.

And the worst part? It could be solved so easily with a better broom.

A better broom, which Alec has at his fingertips. Hell, he’s got three at home, and enough gold in his vault to buy a fleet of them. Would have done for his team, if the practice hadn’t been outlawed by Hogwarts years before.

He knows it’s useless to offer one to Magnus; he wouldn’t have taken one when they were together, and he sure as hell won’t consider it now. Accepting help from anyone is hard for him, and despite their current arrangement, past precedent has shown that Alec is the last person he wants to accept anything from.

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t come back to the game until there’s a loud woop beside him and Tyler nearly comes out of his seat. Alec glances over at him to see Josh smiling softly, still surprisingly subdued, and then takes in what’s happening on the field: Werther, smirking like the ponce Alec knows he is, zooming away from the Gryffindor posts, clearly just having scored a goal.

Alec’s eyes flick toward Magnus, not failing to notice the way his shoulders roll forward – the same way they would a year previous, when he was studying for an exam, sequestered in their corner of the library – and unable to help the squeezing of his heart that accompanies the realization. But as Tyler settles back into the seat beside him, chatting absentmindedly about one of the Gryffindor chasers that’s being scouted by the same team that has approached him, he starts to formulate a plan.

 

\--

 

**October 29th 2016: Sixth Year**

Aside from a barely discernable lowering of the buzzing chatter in the room, there’s no obvious acknowledgement of Magnus and Alec’s arrival. Alec was expecting as much – the Slytherins are too calculated a bunch to reveal the truth depth of their surprise – but it doesn’t make a difference to the jolting sensation of his heart pounding against his ribs. Despite the fact that he’s spent most of his life trying to escape the inevitable spotlight that comes along with his family name, tonight he can do nothing but enjoy the attention directed at him. In fact, he welcomes it, because every glance tonight reaffirms a simple truth: Magnus chose him. Magnus chose him and he continues to choose him, in full view of everybody gathered here.

It takes a few minutes, but before long people are sauntering over to feign small talk and wait for the information they’re really interested in: how Alec came to be here. Unsurprisingly, they pay almost equal attention to Tyler – his Quidditch prowess is enough to garner admiration from any house – but he only has eyes for Ragnor. It’s sweet, actually, watching them fall all over each other, and Alec tries to keep his grinning to a minimum. Magnus doesn’t mention anything to his housemates, letting Alec say whatever he wants, but he also doesn’t let go of Alec’s hand. He rubs his thumb along the edge of Alec’s wrist in slow, repetitive circles, easily staving away the chill of the dungeons and ensuring that Alec’s breath doesn’t get a chance to even out.

He’s not sure who pushes the first drink into his hand – Tyler, perhaps, half in his cups already, bubbling over with happiness, and shouting the lyrics to a song Alec doesn’t think he’s ever heard before – but once the first is gone another two follow in quick succession. The punch isn’t nearly as strong as the shots they’d slung back at the muggle clubs that summer, but it’s enough to give him a pleasant buzz. It’s enough to make him feel invincible, like there’s no magic in the world that could disrupt this moment. He knows he’s smiling like an idiot, and when he feels Magnus shift beside him, he looks up to find that he’s being watched.

“You’re looking at me,” he says to Magnus, flushing a little under the small laugh the obvious statement elicits. He’s buoyant with happiness, and keeps his eyes locked on Magnus’s, and as the seconds pass the pounding of the music fades into the background.

“I am always looking at you,” Magnus says.

Alec waits for a smile or a jostling of shoulders, but there’s no hint of a laugh in Magnus’s voice. In fact, the raw intensity of the declaration has Alec moving before he can think of a single reason not to. He pulls Magnus close, kissing him with none of the practiced ease of the past few months. Instead, he kisses him with everything that, up to this point, has been simmering below the surface. He kisses him with the power of every secret doubt, every fleeting insecurity. He kisses him as he has never dared until this moment: with a full, possessive confidence. And though it’s a damn good kiss, for the first time it’s also more than that: it’s a statement. It’s an acknowledgement.

The kiss turns into two, then three, and then Magnus is gently pressing his lips to Alec’s before pulling away. “I,” he starts, and then after a brief hesitation lifts his hand to finger at one of Alec’s magically-induced curls, “I love that you’re here with me.”

Alec’s heart thumps, louder than the bass that permeates the room, and in that sentence he hears everything that Magnus is trying to say but can’t. He hears everything he’s been feeling himself these past few months.

There’s a pause, and in that pocket of time where he’s trying to sort out what he wants to say from what he should say, the room erupts in a maelstrom of confetti. The music picks up and someone casts a spell that has bright streaks of orange dancing along the walls. Glasses are clinking together and he can hear Tyler’s laugh from across the room, and he feels alive in a way he never has at Hogwarts.

“I think,” he starts, pausing for just a second to brush a piece of confetti from Magnus’s cheek. “I think I may have fallen in love with Halloween.”

At that Magnus does laugh – a joyous explosion of noise that bursts from his chest. He pulls Alec close, slotting their hips together.

“Oh, Alexander,” he says at Alec’s ear, his breath a familiar comfort. Then he presses his lips against Alec’s skin and everything else fades away.

 

\--

 

**October 28th 2017: Seventh Year**

Slytherin wins the game, and though Alec knows he should probably congratulate Magnus, he can’t stand to hear him make plans with Josh and Tyler for later that night. He can’t stand any of it – not the waiting, the watching, or the veritable deluge of memories, and so he heads to the one place he knows his mind will be fully occupied. For the first time in his life, Saturday night finds him willingly sequestered in the potions classroom, reading up on next week’s assignment and trying to forget about the look on Tyler’s face when he left for the Slytherin costume party.

It’s bad enough, just having to live with the memories of last year. Last year when he’d been so open, so happy, so –

He hisses as he slices through a thin layer of skin. Cursing his idiocy – both past and present – he quickly submerges the cut in the tiny bowl of antibiotic solution he’d poured up for this very reason. He watches for a second as his thumb knits together, simultaneously awed and a little ashamed at the ease with which he can fix his mistake. Who was he, to be born into such an amazing birthright? He hasn’t earned a single thing in his life, and now that he has a chance to make something of himself, instead of focusing he’s content to wallow in memories of a time that clearly meant more to him than the person he’s so foolishly pining over.

He takes a quick second to breathe – and quickly curse Halloween back to the oblivion where it belongs – before reexamining his ingredients. They actually look pretty good – if only he’d been this proficient at the basics as a first year. He looks around for his book, but can’t see it anywhere amongst the pile of clutter that crowds his workstation. He knows he brought it with him, because he remembers wiping a bit of cobweb from the pages as he leafed through for instructions when he’d first arrived. He mumbles a quick _accio_ and nearly startles out of his skin when he hears a _thunk_ and an _ow_ in quick succession.

He knocks over his bowl of antibiotic solution as he jumps, but before it can hit the floor he hears the rustling of a wand and Magnus’s soft voice.

Feeling the rush of nausea and anticipation that accompanies all their encounters, Alec forces himself to turn around slowly. He schools his features into something he hopes is unreadable, and stares at Magnus, eyes unblinking. Unable to trust his own voice, he waits for Magnus to break the silence.

As he waits, he watches. He doesn’t fail to notice the bags under Magnus’s eyes, darker now than he’s ever seen them, or the nervous tapping of his long fingers against the side of his wand. He looks exhausted, and there’s not even a hint of anything to suggest that he’s just come from the Hallowe’en Party.

His voice, when he speaks again, sounds as tired as he looks. “Alec. What are you doing down here?”

Alec shrugs.“Seemed to be the appropriate atmosphere,” he says, turning back to his cauldron.

Magnus steps forward slowly, and Alec has no choice but to watch from the corner of his eye; he’s not entirely sure Magnus will make it into a seat without collapsing.

“I can go,” Magnus says quietly, once he’s finally slumped into the seat beside him. When Alec doesn’t answer, he continues. “I didn’t mean to – I just have some potions to test for Penhallow. I – I honestly didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else you’re supposed to be?” Though he’s aiming for nonchalant, Alec knows it’s impossible to miss the bitterness in his voice.

“I –” Alec looks up and then immediately regrets his decision; Magnus looks lost. The layers of exhaustion have cut him up in a way that Alec himself has only seen on a few rare occasions, and the worst part is that he doesn’t even seem with it enough to notice. “I’m really tired,” Magnus finally concedes. That small admission is the closest Alec has ever heard to an acknowledgement that he cannot, in fact, do _everything_. “Plus, I couldn’t really think of going. Not now, not after…”

He trails off and Alec lets him. He gives him an out, because in this moment, Magnus’s pain trumps his own. In this moment he doesn’t care how unfair it is for Magnus to mourn what they had, since he’s the one who chose to end it. In this moment, doing anything to hurt Magnus further is an impossibility.

“Just get your potions,” Alec mutters after a moment. “I might need some extra help soon anyway.”

He tries not to look, to just ignore Magnus and concentrate on what he came here to do, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop himself from looking any more than he can stop his heart from picking up when he notices the open gratitude and the soft smile that grace Magnus’s face as he settles in to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long gap, but as promised it's still coming. : ) 
> 
> As a favour, I'd really love it (if you're enjoying this fic) for you to spread the word. Reaching new people and getting feedback is the best, and I appreciate all of you for reading!


	8. Chapter Eight

**November 3rd, 2017: Seventh Year**

It’s been nearly a week since the first Quidditch match, and Magnus still hasn’t gotten used to the way that people burst into renditions of his best saves as he enters the common room. His tenure at Hogwarts hasn’t exactly been without attention, but this is on an entirely different level. This instant recognition reminds him of everything he’s hated about Quidditch - the unmitigated adulation, the ferocity of the fans, the Godlike status ascribed to certain players - but he knows he’s not in any position to judge right now. If nothing else, winning that first game has only solidified his suspicions that no one pays attention to academic achievements in the same way that they pay attention to success on the field.

Unfortunately, instead of alleviating the pressure, his first game has done nothing but make it imperative to keep winning. And that’s why once Gallant, a particularly insufferable fourth year who thinks he’s ready to commentate for the World Cup just because his Uncle was drafted to the Ballycastle Bats, finishes narrating an excessively enthusiastic play by play from the second half, Magnus sneaks out of the common room and heads out toward the Quidditch pitch.

Because despite the accolades he’s been receiving and despite Thomas’s begrudging acknowledgement that he was a good addition to the team, Magnus knows there’s so much room to improve. Cursing himself for not just _giving in_ when he was a second year and gaining those years of practice, he walks toward the broom shed, intent on taking out the loaner broom he’d used during the last game.

Magnus might not be a longstanding Quidditch fan, but he also isn’t a total idiot - he knows that he probably played as well as he could during that game. He was focused and calm and made a number of particularly good saves. He also isn’t one to ascribe blame, happy enough to recognize his own shortcomings and work like hell to overcome them, but he knows - Merlin, he’s _certain_ \- that this broom slowed him down.

This broom is going to keep slowing him down.

He wrenches the door of the storage cupboard open a little too quickly, sending a cascade of polishing kits and and retired Quaffles to the ground. As he hastily spells the contents back into place and picks the loaner broom off the shelf, he has to fight to keep his hands from shaking. His anger, never far from the surface these days, is ignited just by having the handle in his hands.

He knows better than to let his temper get the best of him and he’s long past wasting energy on injustices he can do nothing about, but _Merlin_ , he’s so tired. The thought of playing another game brings him no joy. He thinks of Tyler, flushed and happy before every game, and Alec as he used to be the year before, thoughtfully breaking down his every match, looking to Magnus for advice despite the fact that he knew little to nothing about Quidditch, and feels drained. He has no passion for this sport. Truthfully, passion in general seems to be in short supply, for as the list of things he needs to do to make it through this year piles higher, his reserve only depletes further. These past few days, as he’s avoided Josh in the hallway, still unable to truly look him in the eye after the things he’d said about Tyler, he feels as though he’s running on nothing but bitterness. He could be an inferius, as inhuman as he feels most days. Still, he hasn’t made it this far to just give up, so he takes the broom from the closet and starts to walk toward the pitch.

He’s so tired in fact, that he doesn’t notice he’s not alone until a voice punctuates the silence of the dimly-lit pitch.

“Hey Magnus.”

He manages to keep his grip on the broom, but it’s a close call. He blinks his tired eyes into obeisance, until he can finally make out the crisp outline of Tyler, dressed in a muggle getup, holding his own broom in his hands.

“Tyler,” Magnus answers hesitantly. Guilt isn’t an emotion he has often, and the discomfort of it has him gripping the broom tightly enough to leave an indent in the skin. “I didn’t think anyone had the field booked.”

“We don’t,” Tyler says easily, his face open and friendly in a way that seems entirely implausible after the horrible things Magnus said the week before. “I came here to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Magnus steels himself for the inevitable message from Josh; he expects it must be truly awful, as neither of them had ever had to resort to using a messenger before.

“Calm down,” Tyler says, leaning forward to clap a warm hand on Magnus’s arm. “You look like you’re expecting to be cursed.” He thrusts his arm toward Magnus, knocking aside the loaner broom with his prized Firebolt. “I want you to take this.”

For a second, Magnus is speechless. He knows what this broom means to Tyler - how much his family had to save to be able to give it to him. In less than a year it won’t matter, since he’ll be playing professionally and have access to the top of the line Supreme, but right now he’s sure that Tyler would rather be parted from his feet than this broomstick.

Tyler gently takes the loaner out of Magnus’s hand and replaces it with the Firebolt. Though he’d flown on it over the summer, while they were practicing, it feels even better than it had back then. Still, there’s no way he can just _take_ this. He doesn’t deserve it - he never has, fatigue-induced tantrums or not.

“There’s no way I can use that, Tyler, especially not after - ”

“Hey, listen.” Tyler’s voice, usually so mild and agreeable, snaps into the firm tone Magnus has heard him use on the Quidditch pitch. “I know that you and Josh never fight, but normal siblings do, all the time. And they say things that they regret and then they’re forgiven. I don’t want you to feel guilty forever, Magnus, and neither does Josh. We care about you, that’s all.”

“But,” Magnus starts, but Tyler holds up a hand to cut him off.

“There are only two things I want from you, Magnus. First, I want you to take this broom and then I want you to head up to Ravenclaw tower and make up with your best friend. He’s been sad all week, and it’s killing me.”

“If I take that broom,” Magnus tries to argue, not willing to move away from the subject at hand so easily. “Then what are you going to do?”

“I’m trying out the Supreme,” Tyler says.

“But I thought you weren’t allowed?”

“It’s not from the League,” he answers easily. “So don’t worry, we’re not breaking any rules.”

As if that’s Magnus’s biggest worry. That pure-as-the-drive-snow Tyler Rose would be breaking such an obvious rule.

“Listen,” Tyler says with an air of finality. “I’m really happy to get a chance to practice with the Supreme, since it’s what I’m going to be flying with next year, and I’d rather my broom be with you than lying under my bed for the rest of the year. You played really well in that game Magnus, and this will help you. And that’s all any of us want to do, you know? We just want to help you.”

Feeling the niggling tightness around his ears that signals an oncoming migraine, Magnus makes the choice to swallow what little pride he has left, and tightens his grip on the Firebolt. _It’s for Josh_ , he tells himself. _If this is what I need to do to gain his forgiveness, then so be it_.

“Thank you,” Magnus says sincerely. He may not like accepting the broom, but he can recognize gesture for what it is. “I’ll find a way to pay you back for this.”

“Just go to Josh,” Tyler says. “I’ll clean things up down here and meet you in the common room in a bit.”

Magnus nods and turns to walk back in the direction of the castle. Before he starts to move, Tyler’s voice cuts through the silence once more.  
“And Magnus? Don’t shut him out like this ever again. I know it’s hard for you to admit when you’re wrong, but your friends aren’t going to turn their backs on you.” He pauses for a moment, and then tacks on, “Josh isn’t ever going to turn his back on you.”

Unable to speak, Magnus nods again and turns back toward the castle, his feet pounding in time with his aching head. Hands shaking, he pulls a vial of tonic out of his robes and wonders how he ended up with so many good people in his life that he’s done nothing to deserve.

\--

That night, ensconced in the ridiculous flannel blanket that Josh’s parents sent as a gift when they were visiting with the Magical Prime Minister of Canada during their third year, Magnus sleeps better than he has in weeks. By the time Tyler made it up from the pitch, Josh had managed to cry twice, call Magnus an insufferable idiot, and proceed to stuff him with so many chocolate frogs he could barely stay upright. Thrilled to be forgiven, exhausted by the events of the night, and running on nothing but pure stubbornness, he had fallen asleep between Josh and Tyler, too exhausted to care what anyone might think.

He wakes with the sun; despite the fact that he’s spent his fair share of nights in Josh’s four-poster, nothing ever prepares him for the glaring brightness of Ravenclaw tower. The dungeons were made for people like him, who cling to the final vestiges of sleep like they’re life-giving manna.

As quietly as possible he wriggles out of the weighted blanket, then with a wordless flick of his wand he gathers his bag and sneaks out the door. Passing a couple of overly curious fifth years - because of course there are Ravenclaws awake before the bloody sun is even fully in the sky - he summons his to-do list to see how to best tackle his day.

He lets the list chatter to him as he winds down the flights of stairs, reminding him of the tasks he put off last night, and even listens to its begrudging congratulations on getting 115% on a recent Transfiguration essay. It suggests that this would be a good time to visit the library, as he has two scrolls due for Defence Against the Dark Arts before the end of next week, and it’s likely to be empty at this hour in the morning. After making a hasty stop at the Head Boy’s bathroom to make himself look at least somewhat presentable, he sets off to the library feeling more optimistic than he has in weeks.

He silently outlines his essay as he makes his way there, his feet following the familiar path without any conscious input. The topic is centred around variations in werewolf presentations based on the lunar stage of the werwolf giving the bite - he’s using primary sources from the Great War, and has been waiting for one particular text to be returned - and he’s been trying to find a way to tie it into his extra credit potions experiment.

Sure that he’s finally thought of the way to link them, he sweeps into the library with a grin on his face, only to have it quickly falter when he finds the open space not nearly as empty as he’d hoped. As always, his eyes are quickly drawn to a particular table, where he spots Alec hunched over a scroll of parchment. He doesn’t have to work hard to picture Alec’s looping scrawl; he’d read pages upon pages of it during the months they spent together. It had taken him months to stop looping his y’s the way he’d picked up from Alec; he’d finally spelled all his quills to autocorrect the quirk, after months of feeling a sharp burst of pain every time he’d proofread an essay.

For a second, he thinks about just walking up and sitting down. Not the same way that he would have a year ago, confident that he belonged at Alec’s side, but as he is now: perhaps not a friend, but at least a tentative ally.

He twitches, his foot ready to make the stride, when the sharp hiss of a barely-contained whisper makes him freeze. As his eyes quickly scan the library, he can see two students at a table not far from Alec’s - tucked away from his line of sight, but in the perfect position to be able to sneak a glance.

It doesn’t take long for Magnus to realize that one of the students is Thomas’s friend from Gryffindor: James Grayson. The other guy is a dark-haired, grumpy looking Ravenclaw, who’s currently rolling his eyes at James’ outburst. They seem to be having a heated discussion, which falls silent as soon as Alec leans back into a deep stretch. Magnus doesn’t miss the flush that spreads across James’ face as Alec’s biceps strain against the limits of his robes, and with that bright smattering of colour, Magnus’s misplaced confidence evaporates.

Because even if Magnus wasn’t already drowning - even if he wasn’t acutely aware of the danger of giving into every destructive feeling that Alec’s presence inspires - he knows that Alec will never forgive him. He might _miss_ him - or, more likely, the idea of him - but he’ll never forgive him.

And so he shouldn’t - not when there are people like James Grayson, who can give him everything Magnus can’t. Who, on top of wealth and connections and untainted affection, can give him _time_.

And time is something that Magnus can’t even guarantee for himself anymore.

So despite the ache that burns in his chest as he watches someone else fall for him, Magnus knows he doesn’t belong at that table with Alec; he knows he probably never did.

 

\--

 

**November 1st, 2016: Sixth Year**

For the third time since they arrived at the library, Alec’s heavy sigh interrupts Magnus’s concentration. He’s barely been able to make it through half a paragraph of his History of Magic essay, and at this rate he’ll be a ghost himself before he hands it in.

What’s more infuriating than being unable to finish his work, however, is the fact that he can’t bring himself to care. He’s not sure when he became the guy who can’t hear his boyfriend sigh without pausing to appreciate how adorable it is, but it’s officially happened.

He _is_ that guy.

“What is it this time?” He peers around, looking for the subject of Alec’s ire. It doesn’t take long to discover the source, since the group of Ravenclaw’s two tables over are doing nothing to disguise their open gawking.

“Ah,” he says, pushing his quill away and moving into a quick stretch. “That lot.”

Alec moans and drops his head to the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I wish I could block them out as well as you do; it’s just that they won’t stop _looking_.”

“Well,” Magnus says, unwinding his leg from around his chair and hooking Alec’s foot with his own. He pulls their chairs closer together with a grin. “We _could_ always give them something worth looking at.”

There’s a snort from within Alec’s arm cocoon and when he raises his face there’s a splotch of red across the bridge of his nose. “Because that’s what will make things improve.”

Magnus shrugs, giving himself half a second to fantasize that very scenario. Then, banishing the thoughts before they get out of control, he snaps his History book shut loudly enough that it echoes across the library.

Staunchly avoiding Pince’s glare, Magnus quickly spells their books back into their bags and sticks his hand out for Alec to grab. Despite his dislike of attention, Alec takes his hand easily, quirking an eyebrow as he does so.

“I thought you said you needed to finish that essay today?”

“I do,” Magnus whispers back softly, cognizant of Madam Pince’s hawklike ears. “But first, we’re going to find a better seat.” He glares at the table of Ravenclaws, who hastily turn their eyes back to their work, fooling absolutely no one.

“Magnus, we don’t have to - ”

“Shh,” Magnus interrupts, holding up a finger to Alec’s lips. The urge to bend in and kiss him is nearly overwhelming, but he’s sure that will garner an even worse reaction than the time Pince caught him trying to smuggle in a half-eaten block of chocolate. He knows that Penhallow has a reputation for being the most terrifying professor at Hogwarts, but he swears he sometimes still hears _melting food! In my library! The audacity of it!_ in his sleep.

Pulling Alec along as quickly and quietly as he can, the pair of them wind through the tables, looking for a place that’s free and out of range of prying eyes. Despite the lull in exams, the warmth of the library in contrast to the abysmal fall weather has drawn in far more students than usual. It’s not just the Ravenclaw nutters who have taken over - there’s even a group of Gryffindors lounging in front of the Magical Sports section.

Still, as they nearly trip over a gaggle of first years who’ve taken to sitting at the base of the stacks, sticking their spindly little legs out in the path of oncoming walkers, Magnus spots something with potential. Beelining for the free table before someone else can snag it, Magnus pulls Alec forward forcefully enough that they collide together. Stifling a giggle, Magnus squeezes Alec’s hand in apology, giddy with happiness when he reciprocates.

“Okay,” he says, gently pulling his hand from Alec’s so that he can present the table with a flourish. When he speaks, it’s with the definitive tone of someone who has exactly what he wants. “This is it; this is our table.”

Alec, in a display of unusual silliness, gives the table an exaggerated once over. “I’m not sure,” he says, pausing to run his fingers along the edge of the weathered wood. “What makes you so certain?”

Ignoring the rush of heat precipitated by Alec’s proximity, Magnus points a finger across the room. “Reason one: ample distance between us and prying Ravenclaw eyes.”

“Point taken,” Alec says, dipping his head. “Continue.”

“The books!” Magnus whisper-shouts, stabbing a finger at the huge tomes of ancient poetry that line the shelves behind them. “Who on earth would ever want to comb through that?”

Alec’s nose wrinkles in distaste as he takes a look at the books for himself. “Fair.”

“And finally,” Magnus says, pulling out a seat with an exaggerated bow, “I am willing to bet that this chair - this exact one - gets an amazing breeze in the Spring.”

“Well, Alec says, slipping into the chair with an easy grin. “You make a very convincing argument. I guess I have no choice but to claim this seat as my own.”

As he pushes the chair into the table, Magnus lowers his head, pressing himself into Alec’s neck.

“Just remember, Lightwood,” he murmurs, covertly dragging his lip against the sensitive skin just behind Alec’s ear, “I have discovery rights; that means that there’s always a seat at this table for me.”

“Yeah.” Alec shivers, his breath hitching from the small gesture. “Yeah, always.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Magnus thinks he deserves and what he actually deserves couldn't be more opposite. (Top of the list of what he actually deserves: a gd hug.) 
> 
> Back again! :D I'm going to try to start up a posting schedule: every two weeks, but with less time if I can swing it. Hope you all enjoyed :)

**Author's Note:**

> And now I have an entire Hogwarts AU in my head. Because of course I do. Short and sweet is not my forte.


End file.
